The Playwright
by Meredith A. Jones
Summary: COMPLETE! James and the boys move in with Mrs. du Maurier. Meanwhile, James writes a new play, and Emma du Maurier is taken ill...FINAL CHAPTER POSTED. PLEASE, PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!
1. A Visit From A Horse

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 1  
A Visit From a Horse

Disclaimer: I can't say it all belongs to Miramax, for I'm pretty sure J.M. Barrie did not "belong" to a movie company in the year 2004. So, Miramax's ideas belong to Miramax, and my ideas belong to me. Good. Now I won't get sued.

Quick Introduction: Hello, first time readers. Welcome _The Playwright. _I recently finished this, and I'm immensely proud of myself. It depends on when you are reading this whether the sequel has been posted yet. Never fear, though. If you're reading this, and see that there's a sequel too, I don't care how long it takes you to read, but I'd like you to read. So read. Hahaha just kidding, everyone.

What you're about to read is a continuation of the movie _Finding Neverland, _starting off with introductions to the characters and the plot. The characters are all from the movie, and if you don't see them all here, you'll be sure to see the rest in my second story. So grab a bag of chips and your mouse, and scroll down to read the story. Enjoy! Love, MJ

OoOoO 

James Barrie smoothed back his dark brown, almost black hair, so that it was almost completely pasted to his scalp. He pulled his suit jacket forward on his shoulders, slipped his pocket watch into his inside pocket, and looped its chain around a button on his shirt. He gave himself one last look in the mirror, and ventured out into the hall. In the corner, there was a long rope hanging from the ceiling. James curled his fingers around the rope, and looked down the silent hallway. Everything was still, peaceful. Everyone else in the house sleeping soundly, dreaming...

He looked at his watch, waited a few more seconds, then began pulling sharply on the rope. The bell's scream cut through the silence like an angry razor. Yells and the sounds of the fumbling of sheets came from behind a closed door a ways down the hallway. James had cleared out Mary's room to make space for the boys, and put in four beds, furniture, and painted the walls. When he was sure that Michael, George, Jack, and Peter were getting up, he let go of the rope and planted himself in front of the bedroom door. Moments later, the door opened and the boys appeared in a line, from shortest to tallest, Michael in front, and George in back. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. For a while.

"What is the condition of the bedroom, Lieutenant George Llewelyn Davies?" James asked the oldest boy. He stepped out of line and spoke loudly.

"Ready for inspection, sir!"

"Would you like to have a look?" Michael asked in a small voice, sounding ever so excited.

"Michael, shh!" Jack whispered. James bent over, and put his hands on his knees. "What's that you say?"

"I didn't mean to, sir," Michael whimpered.

"What'll be the punishment for speaking out of turn, General?" James stood up straight and began thinking. Punishments...punishments...well, it can't be something too bad. After all, they really are just little boys even though they seem to be in the military.

"Give him the prunes," he whispered finally, "Top shelf. I'll inspect the bedroom."

"No! Please, sir!" Michael pleaded. James and George exchanged a salute, and the General made his way into the bedroom, while Michael was carried off downstairs, over Jack and Peter's shoulders. The room had changed, that was for sure. Drawings and photographs of James and the boys had been pasted around the fireplace and on the walls, and toy trucks and kite strings had been set upon the mantle very neatly. Mary's old wardrobe had been replaced with a much larger one, to accommodate the clothes of four little boys, and the walls, that James had spent an entire day on painting, were splattered with ink in areas where Peter sat to write...

_"You've got paint on your nose, Uncle Jim!" James looked down at Michael from his stool and smiled._

_"Oh, that's not paint, Michael," James said. The younger boy let loose a shrill laugh._

_"Don't be silly, Uncle Jim! It's the same color!"_

_"It's the same color, is it? Well, I'll tell you, it's not paint, my wee lad."_

_"What's he talking about now?" Jack asked, entering the room, careful not to step on Michael's teddy bear by the door, or put his arms on the wet walls._

_"Peter Pan has paint on his nose," Michael said._

_"He's not Peter Pan, Michael," Jack said. He and George would often tell him this, though Michael still insisted that James was indeed the boy that never grew up. Because, really, on the outside, James Barrie was showing age, but on the inside, he was still as giddy as a six year old boy._

_"You don't know anything," Michael said, sitting on a chair. He looked back up at James, who had continued to paint, and was smiling away as though this was the most amusing thing he'd ever been a part of._

_"So what is on your nose, Peter?" he asked._

_"A kiss."_

_"A kiss?" Jack said. James nodded. "A kiss," he confirmed._

_"What kissed you?" Michael asked. "Was it mum?" James shook his head. "Not this time," he said, then paused from painting and looked down at the puzzled boys. The sight made him laugh. Old sheets laying about the floor splattered with light blue paint, and two boys, looking as though they had just been slapped in the face. "This time," he continued, "I was kissed by a fairy."_

_"A fairy?" Michael was enchanted. "I've never really seen a fairy before!"_

_"Of course you've seen a fairy!" James said._

_"Only in my dreams."_

_"Dreams are as real as you wish for them to be, Michael. If you saw a fairy in your dreams, that fairy may really be flying about this room right now as we speak." James looked around the room as if he was following the route of a real, playfully floating fairy. Jack looked around as well, trying to catch it with his eyes, then he looked at James._

_"Last time you were kissed, it was by a mermaid," he said. Michael giggled. "And you had gravy on your chin!"_

_"I don't believe you were kissed by a fairy, Uncle Jim," Jack said._

_"Then believe it."_

_"I can't!"_

_"Sure you can."_

_"Make me believe."_

_"I can't make you believe anything, Jack." James said, dipping his brush in the can in his other hand, and proceeding to paint over the boring white that had covered the walls. When he pulled it back to work on another spot, the bristles of the brush grazed his cheek, and Jack and Michael found themselves in a fit of laughter. They were, indeed, laughing at the new blue spot on their adopted father's cheek, but they were also laughing at the completely shocked look he had given. He covered it up with a playful grin, and a glance at the two._

_"My fairy's going to come kiss you too," he said, his eyes twinkling as they did so often._

_"Oh no, Jack! Run!" Michael squealed, hopping off of the stool and running out of the room. James, paint can and all, ran out to chase them. His gigantic dog, Porthos, waddled out of James's room, barking loudly, and barreled down the stairs after Peter Pan and two of his lost boys once he saw there was a commotion. Peter and George were playing a game of chess on the dining room floor, and as soon as the party blew through the room, the chess pieces were scattered around, and Peter and George had joined in on the chase. It continued outside, where everyone, including the dog, had ended up in a big, wet, sticky, blue pile in the grass. Neighbors walked by with looks of loathing and embarrassment. Only the children walking by with their mothers and peeking in through the gates, laughed. The mothers only pulled them away hastily. The Barries didn't care, though. They were just glad to have fun. Later that same day, James and the boys had spent hours trying to get the paint out of their hair, and of course, Porthos's fur. That was the way life was supposed to be. This was home._

James moved the rug with his foot, and discovered a single blue splatter. He had found it there after he came upstairs with a fresh can of paint the next day to finish the job, and decided to leave it there, as a memory. He wasn't sure if the boys knew it was there, and if they did, they hadn't done anything to get rid of it because it was still there, as clear as day. He smiled, and took one last look around the room. James was satisfied. The beds were made neatly, the covers pulled up over the pillows. He went to the door, and just as he was about to turn off the lamp, he spotted something underneath Jack's bed. He approached the bed, and pulled out from under it, a pair of beige colored trousers. He smiled, walked back out of the room, and began to ring the bell again. Peering over the balcony, he spotted the boys filtering out of the kitchen, and into a line, shoulder to shoulder, in front of the door.

James paced back and forth in front of the line. Michael was sporting sticky purple smudges on his face.

"I am astounded by this discovery I've made. You should all be ashamed of an act with the seriousness of this amplitude. Not just Jack, but all of you. Do any of you realize that this," he held up the trousers, "could give away our position if seen by the opposite side?" He shook his head, maintaining a straight face, though the children laughed into their sleeves. James realized he had something here, and continued.

"This is just what they need!" he shook it around, and this was followed by even more laughing. "They find it, and we could all end up _dead_!" Between laughs, Peter managed to say,

"Excuse me, sir - but Jack's trousers are hardly the desired treasure of the opposite forces."

"Really!" James exclaimed. He bent down to Peter's level. "Then what, young man, is their desired treasure?" Peter could barely get it out. "George's socks!" James smiled, and the boys, again, roared with laughter.

James opened the door. All four boys waited to go, while their guardian turned to them for the final check.

"Does everyone have his lunch? His school bag?" The boys nodded, and stepped off of the stoop. James waved at them as they walked off, saying their goodbyes over their shoulders. He closed the door and went upstairs. He wouldn't be spending the day in the park today. He had someplace to be now, and he had to get ready.

In James's room was a trunk. This trunk, he had told the children, could only be opened by whomever is worthy to use it, and its protector. There were four locks on the front, and each was opened by a different magic password, each one special, and representing something of importance in the trunk. James believed in this big black box himself, and even when he was alone, he made believe he was the protector of its contents, and muttered the magic words to it while his fingers worked around the metal locks. Presently, he pushed up the lid, kneeled on the floor, and looked inside. He smiled at what he saw.

Costumes, props. Everything to transform you into what you wished so much to be. He put his hands inside and fished around, withdrawing a large flowered bag, and anything else he decided would make good toys for a group of children.

You see, these children would believe in the magic, because these children (if not all, but most of them) had hope. Hope for a new life. Hope relied very much on Imagination. Because, without Imagination, there would be no Hope.

So now, James took out a shawl, for a little girl to become a helpless woman for the hero to rescue, a pirate hat, a false hook, three wooden daggers. Indian costumes, a frayed rope, feathers, other various hats. A lot of these things he had requested for from the theater where his plays were, almost exactly the day after he finished them, were practiced, and then eventually, performed.

James's ears piqued. He had heard something coming from outside. It sounded like a horse. Maybe someone was coming to visit? He got up from the floor, closing and locking the trunk, and went to the window.

"Ah, yes. A horse indeed." Emma du Maurier was clip-clopping up the walk, her usual smug expression plastered on her face like a particularly stubborn blot of ink on a piece of silk clothing, and her four thousand skirts (James called them this) swishing in front of her, in back of her, hell - everywhere. James smiled sardonically.

"Mrs. du Maurier! It's a pleasure to see you here, and so soon after our last visit. No doubt you have other places to be, it's an honor to be in your presence while you have other, more important, things to do." He turned away from the window, and began making his way down the hallway, proceeding to talk to himself and gesticulating theatrically.

"I tell you, the boys have been just wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. It's a shame you're not living here with us, or you might be able to be in on the fun. Oh? You don't know what fun is, you say? It's a bit hard to explain, really. You'd have to try taking part. Not interested, eh? Aye, I understand. A lass like you has to spend her time wisely, what with going through old age and such. Should have gone to Neverland, you'd never grow old. But of course...for you, this is now not an option." He opened the door smiling, the only reason being his short performance for the nits in the wall.

"Good afternoon, James," Mrs. du Maurier said curtly.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. du Maurier." Emma pushed past James into his house, taking her hat off and plopping it on the banister. Snow fluttered down from it, sprinkling the bottom stair and floor with white powder. James closed the front door, and watched Porthos's tail vanish behind a chair in the dining room. He smiled. This, in his mind, was another game. Porthos wasn't a dog, but a lost boy. And Emma du Maurier wasn't the grandmother of his boys, but the evil Captain Hook.

_"Peter!" James spun around, and where Porthos had been, a small boy dressed in dirty clothes, and a brown nose in the middle of his face, waved at him to join him behind a large boulder. James obeyed and crouched down next to him, where the two watched Hook through the other entrance to the room._

"I was think - Mr. Barrie? James?"

_"Peter! Peter Pan! Come out, come out, where ever you are! You can't hide for long!"_

_"What do we do, Peter?" the Lost Boy asked, trust filling his small, whispering voice. James thought a moment, keeping his eyes fixed on Hook, who was now wandering almost aimlessly throughout the beautiful Neverland, trying to find Peter and his friend. James put his arm around the Lost Boy, and spoke into his ear, careful not to let Captain Hook hear, so they wouldn't be discovered._

_"We plan to attack from above. We'll climb up in that tree there and once he comes back this way - " "Now what in heaven's name are you doing down there?"_ It was a bit frightening - it was Hook who was speaking, but with Mrs. du Maurier's voice. The scene then vanished. James was James, Porthos was Porthos. The chair was just a chair, and Mrs. du Maurier was Mrs. du Maurier. Neverland faded into the boring, un-picturesque dining room.

"I dropped my..." James started, looking around the floor for something only he could see, but Emma du Maurier didn't let him finish his imaginary excuse.

"This is the type of nonsense that I was talking about."

"If you don't mind my saying, you haven't said anything, Mrs. du Maurier." James got up off the ground, taking his arm off of his dog. He patted Porthos's backside, sending him out of the room.

"Yes, but - " Emma sighed. "James, I've been thinking about the prospect of you and the children moving in with me." He knew this had been coming. It had really only been a matter of time. He immediately thought of the blue paint splatter on the floor, and the walls covered with pictures and ink splotches, and the puffy white clouds James had painted to make it feel like every time you went to sleep, you were flying off to Neverland. He wanted the boys to feel this way, so they would fly off to Neverland in their dreams, and get away from the sick reality they had to go back to when they woke up. James's heart sank.

"But...this is...this is their home now, you can't just take away a boy's home."

"Moving in here is completely out of the question. If you move in with me, you won't have to pay maids, or...worry about...anything." Emma paused. "The boys could do the work. We could just relax and maybe get to the point where we could actually talk to each other without getting in each other's hair. Sylvia would've wanted it to be that way." She gave a smile, that wasn't forced, for she almost always smiled at the mention of her daughter, her daughter that had gone off to Neverland. James had supposed that Mrs. du Maurier would become a pirate when she went off to Neverland...if she went there at all.

"The boys need to have fun! While they can; they need to be children. Before it's too late, before...before they grow up." Emma's smile turned almost immediately into a deep frown.

"Oh, well, then good. They can become just like you and never grow up." Another pause. James stared up at the grandmother from his five foot one height, then sighed and looked out the window. She decided that she had defeated him, and really, she had. He would have normally put up a fight and defended his position so that he could keep the boys away from their grandmother, but if it was what _Sylvia_ wanted...well...that was another story.

"Good then. By Friday, I'll have your rooms ready and you'll have your bags packed, yes?" James looked back at Emma. He couldn't let this woman (even if she was the boys' grandmother) take away a person's home, a person's one haven, away from being perfect and pinched up like they would have to be if they moved in. James knew that he couldn't live like that. He might go out of his mind. He would have to stay here. But he couldn't leave the boys, he couldn't let his Lost Boys be taken back to Captain Hook's ship.

James nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Well, maybe you're growing up after all." She gave him a brief pat on his oily dark brown hair, like a child, wiped off the intrusive liquid on her dress, and made her way into the library. James had to entertain a bit longer before he could leave...


	2. Fairies

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 2  
Fairies 

It was eight thirty AM when Mr. Barrie left with his old flowered bag. He wrapped up in his black coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and began to walk through the city, where it was snowing lightly. He loved the snow. Loved everything about it. (with the exception of having to get Julie to clean up the mess that Emma du Maurier made of his staircase with her outrageous bonnet) On a day like today, when there was no wind, the snow just floated in the air, not moving anywhere except for down, just floated to its resting place on top of another crystal. And it all piled up there, on the wet grass, the grass that would poke back up while the sun dragged itself out from behind a cloud, during Spring. Then James would miss Winter. This small depression would last for a few days while he watched it all melt, then when everything dried up, he and the boys would go out and play. They'd take their games outside. Summer would roll around and the sun would roar over their heads, making everyone itch and sweat in their heavy clothing and dresses. But the Barries didn't have a care in the world, and just went on making merriment. And then all through Fall...until Winter came along again...

So now James trudged through the city, through the slush that was made by horses and the other wealthy people who drove cars. It was really a sight. A little girl twirling around, trying to catch one of the fat snowflakes on her tongue, two boys wrestling in front of a store window, pedestrians having to step over their feet and fists. The two were laughing all the while, and that's what made James Barrie smile. The laughter of children. It only had that certain ring, that certain shrill sound, that made you jump out of your skin, for a few years. Boys' voices would change, and grow deeper, girls' voices would in turn grow deeper, and they'd begin to laugh daintily like their parents, and only at formal parties or in the off chance that one of the square folks at their house made a fairly humorous joke.

He'd like to take them all to Neverland right now. To have them all experience fun and immense happiness again. But he knew he can't. No one can be pushed into going to Neverland. Often if they are, it won't appear real to them. Because they have lost their imagination and their innocence along with childhood. It was sad, really.

James watched a dog carry away a woman's scarf, while she chased after it angrily, and scolding it as she did. This was another thing that made James smile...and this was simply called Keep-Away. Fine game it was. He and Porthos played it many a time. Presently he looked up at the large statues by the sides of the stairway to the orphanage. Two big angels, their arms stretched towards the heavens, guarding all of the children inside, it seemed. James was almost hesitant to walk up the stone steps, thinking that maybe the angels would look down upon him and slam their mighty hands in his way, banning him from entrance to their fortress. But he did climb the stairs, though watching the angels all the while, and soon found himself inside a large room, where a large number of children were all sitting around, most looking bored. Two boys were in a corner playing cards, two girls playing jump rope across the room. James looked around as he walked. On the ceiling two floors up was a mural, and doors lined the walls along the second level. Behind each door was a bedroom, each with about ten beds. Children were put into bedrooms judging by their age. A few children were leaning over the balcony, two watching Mr. Barrie, as he just narrowly missed slamming into a woman with a large purple hat. He decided to watch where he was going after that.

"Mister!" James looked down to see a girl wearing a jumper too big for her tugging on his jacket. She looked to be about six years old - Michael's age.

"Hello," he said, giving the small girl a smile. She smiled back, revealing the fact that she was missing both of her front teeth. James raised his eyebrows, the same playful smile plastered on his face.

"Well, look at that," he said, crouching down to her level and setting his bag on the floor.

"What?" she asked, a bit puzzled.

"Open your mouth again."

"Oh." She giggled, and obeyed, now realizing what this strange man wanted to see. James looked into her mouth and clicked his tongue a few times.

"And where did you put those teeth, young lady?" he asked critically, but soft enough as not to offend her.

"Sister Theresa took them." James's eyes grew exaggeratedly wide, and he covered his mouth with three fingers.

"What? What's wrong?" The girl asked, worried by his reaction.

"It's just that...ye' should've put 'em under your pillow."

"Why?"

"Well, haven't ye' ever heard of the Tooth Fairy?" The girl shook her head. James acted surprised, though in reality, he wasn't. This child was young, so she probably had grown up here. Many of the children here had, he knew. The nuns didn't speak to the children of such magic. There were too many, especially in this orphanage, for a nun to talk to a child directly.

"Well, see, when you lose a tooth, you put it under your pillow at night, an' the next morning, you'll find something special under your pillow. Some money, or some candy, or clothes. That's because the Tooth Fairy came to your house. She flies around each night to the houses of children who've lost teeth, and takes them back with her and leaves a present for you."

"What does she do with all the teeth?" James paused, now knowing what to tell her. He'd never thought about this before.

"Well...she puts them all in a big sack, and flies back to her hideout...and makes things with them."

"Makes things?"

"For the other fairies."

"There are other fairies?"

"Oh, sure! An' in fact - " James glanced around him, and noticed that a small queue of children had formed around he and his friend. He smiled, and continued. "In fact, for each child, a fairy's living somewhere." A gasp went around the group.

"Do I have a fairy?" This time, it wasn't from the first girl, but another girl, an older girl, standing next to a boy with playing cards in his hand. Clearly he and his friend had finished their game and decided to see what was going on.

"Of course you have a fairy! Everyone has a fairy - oh! Except..." James motioned for everyone to come closer. The group leaned in to listen to his whisper. "Except...if you say...'I don't believe in fairies.'"

"I believe in fairies!" A girl said loudly.

"Good!" James said. "Who else believes in fairies?"

"I do!"

"I do too!"

"And me!"

"Wait..." said the toothless girl. James looked at her. "What happens if you say 'I don't believe in fairies'?

"Oh...well...that's a sorry, heartless thing to say, that is. When you say 'I don't believe in fairies,' a fairy dies."

"Dies!" A young boy exclaimed.

"That's right. Dies. Boom! Drops to their death. Instantly."

"That's awful!" said the toothless girl.

"Aye, it is." James nodded.

"What's your name, anyway?" A boy asked. The stranger looked up at the boy with a smile, and that cheerful, playful twinkle, bursting with youth, in his dark brown eyes.

"Peter Pan."

Author's Note: A short chapter, but chapter three is longer and I couldn't make it all one chapter or it would be way too long. Go to the bathroom or something and go on to chapter three!

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REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 1:

**KatrinaKaiba** - I was real excited when I saw your review! lol. I'm glad you liked mine...I tried to make the first chapter good enough to keep people reading and hopefully it's working! As you can see, I got 5 reviews so I can post this one! Thanks again!

**Liz da Lizard** - Liz, Liz, Liz. What am I going to do with you? Ah well you read almost everything I write. STALKER. I'm kidding! Thanks for reviewin lolol you won't have to harvest my organs. (mmm organs)

**oi-oi-oi** - My friend! You speak of adding jewels! You have added a jewel to my review collection! I shall update as fast as I can because until Monday the 28th, I am on vacation! And then I have another vacation in a month! See, we had two weeks for Easter, but they broke it up this year like all of the other schools in the area so we have a week for President's Day and a week for Easter. I wish I could just drop out of school and just write all day long. I find when I'm out of school, that's what I'm doing. My parents yell at me so much but I tell them I'm writing and they let it go because they know it's my dream. My goal is to get on the Bestseller list. But I can't do that by writing Fanfiction...so what I need to do is get something original out! Here's a proposition - be my first reviewer for my original I started on Fictionpress. It's called Authoress. If you can't find it, email me at and I'll send you the link because sometimes you really can't find stories even if you put in the exact name. Anywho - thank you for the most AMAZING review, I sent it to all of my friends and now I'm going to write some more of this fic, you've inspired me so much! Thank you!

**H.M. Chandler** - The games are SO much fun to write! I need to stick some more in there desperately for my own sake! I have a few plans for this...they're mostly just separate ideas, but I'll add stuff to make them an actual story...don't worry, you won't even be able to tell. That is if you keep reading, and you better! lol! Thanks for taking the time to read!


	3. The Last Dance

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 3  
The Last Dance 

Inside: A story, an entry, and a dream.

A/N: A bit of a longer chapter. I feel I owe you all one. Oh, and attention POTC fans (wink). I hope this flows nicely...I'm afraid I might have made the ending too...well...you read it.

Congratulations to Jan Kaczmarek for winning 'Best Original Score' for Finding Neverland! You deserved it, I LOVE that soundtrack!

Johnny Depp at the Oscars: (love this pic) h t t p : i m d b . c o m / f e a t u r e s / r t o / 2 0 0 5 / g a l l e r y / o s c a r 0 5 - r e d c a r p e t / 1 3 (just delete the spaces) OH And ask me about the "Funny Hat" in a review if you want to see the pictures!

Now, onto the story!

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Sarah was ten. She had been at the orphanage since she was a baby; it had been an accidental pregnancy, and neither her mother, nor her father, were interested in taking on a child. Her mother had dumped her there, with high hopes for her baby girl, then fled town. Sarah still maintained a sparkling smile and a good disposition and mood during the day, though way deep down she was hurting, wishing to be loved. But she put this aside while she stood, thrashing at the boy who was restraining her, a twelve year old boy named Patrick. 

"She's putting up a mighty fight, Captain Sparrow!" James turned his head, an umbrella grasped tightly in his hands, to look at his crew member struggling with the young lady.

"Well, hold onto her then!" He said simply. His voice bounced off the walls as it carried itself around the room. He and a few other children were on one balcony, while another crew, led by an older boy, was on the other side of the room, looking over the other railing. If you went over the railing, you were thrown into the sea...and probably would be badly injured on the floor below...

The boy holding onto the girl, who was wearing James's shawl, held tighter. Boys and girls on the other side of the room, lined up along the railings with umbrellas and long sticks were making noises and yelling commands at each other. James's crew did just the same. The orphanage seemed to swirl away...

_"Watch out for that island!" Red the Ragged shouts to the boy at the wheel, Cuthbert the Clumsy. Cuthbert looks out at the roaring sea, gives a yelp, and makes an effort to get away from the green piece of land they're coming up on. But it's too late. The ship crashes violently into the island and slowly, the giant boat begins to fill up with water._

_"We have to jump ship!" Captain Sparrow shouts over the waves and breaking of wood._

_"But what about the enemy?" Benjamin the Brave shouts._

_"If they really are such cowards, they'll steer clear of us! Men, stay armed!"_

"Men!" A girl named Molly said, lowering the barrel of her umbrella gun, and looking sternly at James.

"An' Lasses o' course." James added politely.

_"Thank ye, Captain!" Molly the Modest shouts. Captain Sparrow gives a grunt in reply and shoves his gun under his arm._

_"Now! One by one, jump into the water! And be careful of the man-eating...goldfish!"_

A younger boy and girl giggled. James gave them a wink.

_"Goldfish, Captain?" Matthew the Mischievous yells._

_"Yes! Australian! They can tear off heads with a single bite!"_

More giggling. James smiled.

"I'm doing the best I can," he said apologetically.

"No, go on," Red said.

_"What should we do with the hostage, Captain Sparrow?" Red says._

_"Take her with us, Red! If the enemy doesn't show up on the island and we're stuck there, she'll be first on the silver plate!" Sparrow grunts back, his face twisting into what should look like a smile. "Let her jump first, and if she dares try and get away, be after her like a dog and a bone!"_

_"Aye aye, Captain!"_

Sarah began walking down the stairs to the first floor and obediently waited at the bottom for the rest of the evil crew that was keeping her captive, only to be grabbed by the arm. She looked, and saw it was James's hand. It made her smile, really, to see that it wasn't the grimy, bony hand of Captain Sparrow, but the kind and gentle one of Mr. Barrie. James paid no mind to the smile in the meantime, as he was trying his best to keep in character.

_The two swim to shore together, while the rest follows and crawls up on shore after them. Sparrow gets to his feet, turns to check if everyone's present, keeping a tight grip on Lady Isabel's arm._

_"Where's Cuthbert the Clumsy!" he bellows._

_"Captain!" David the Daring points._

James followed David's finger, to see Cuthbert sitting on the floor, hands cupped over his knee.

"He fell down the stairs," David said. James sighed, and went to David.

"Are you alright?"

_Captain Sparrow throws Lady Isabel back to Red the Ragged and swims out to sea to find Cuthbert the Clumsy._

_"What are you doing, lad?" he shouts into his ear._

_"I got bitten by a man-eating goldfish, Captain!" Cuthbert the Clumsy shouts back._

_"If ye' can't walk, yeh're no use to us! Make the decision now - stay here to be swallowed up by the briny deep, or join us and risk your life!"_

_"I'll join you, Captain!" Cuthbert says. Sparrow grunts, and brings the member of the crew to shore._

_"Look, Captain Sparrow!" Molly the Modest says. Julie the Jubilant follows her gaze and gasps. "They're stopping on the island!" she shouts._

_"Come on, then! Don't just stand there!" Sparrow grabs back onto Lady Isabel and the party runs through the forest, the enemy now jumping off of their own ship and leaping after them._

_"Run! Run!" Sparrow calls to his crew. But he is unsuccessful in his intentions, and trips dramatically on a tree root, falling to the dirt. Lady Isabel goes with him, but forces herself up, and tries to escape, only to be caught again by Red the Ragged. Julie the Jubilant and Molly the Modest kneel down next to Captain Sparrow._

_"Out of the way!" comes a shout from behind. A gunshot rings out. The ladies dodge, but Sparrow is hit. They crawl back to him, though, and try to get a word out of him._

_"Captain!" Molly says. But no words are passed, and Sparrow's head falls to the ground, his eyes closing and his body already beginning to grow cold..._

James heard something he would never expect to after that. The sounds of hands clapping themselves together. He picks up his head to see where the applause is coming from. Five nuns had just stood from a bench, and had apparently been watching the entire time.

"Thank you," James said, smiling, and getting up. He took off his hat and the hook from his hand, and bowed to them. The children did the same.

"Mr. Barrie, I presume?" A nun said. James walked over to her and nodded, shaking her hand.

"Oh, what an honor it is! Just a few months ago, a group of children attended your play! They came back that night with their eyes sparkling. Just sparkling, Mr. Barrie! Even the weakest of children were feeling the strongest, and the saddest, the most joyous! We really can't thank you enough. They're still talking of it!"

"Oh, well thank you very much, Sister..."

"Margaret."

"Sister Margaret. Yes, thank you. I'm so glad the children enjoyed my play."

"I see you've been recreating a kind of play right here," Sister Margaret said, all smiles. James chuckles.

"Yes, well...I figured that the children would like to have a bit of fun, that's all."

"Oh no, it's fine! You're welcome to come back anytime soon." James smiled and nodded. The toothless girl, who had been a member of the other crew, dashed up to him and pulled on his coat once again. He looked down at her.

"Look, Mr. Barrie!" The girl opened her mouth wide and wiggled a loose tooth with her tongue.

"They're dropping out like flies, aren't they, lassie!" James said. "Don't forget to leave it under your pillow for the tooth fairy when it comes out!" The girl just gave the biggest smile she could muster and ran off.

"Please give Mr. Barrie his costumes back, children! I'm sure he doesn't want you running off with them!" Sister Margaret said for the children to hear, and they all began putting everything in a pile on the floor.

"Excuse me, Sister...what's that little girl's name? The one missing her front teeth?"

"That's Gretchen. She has been losing an awfully lot of teeth. This'll be her fourth."

"Will you notify me when she loses that one? I live at 100 Bayswater Road. If you would just send a message to me, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Of course, Mr. Barrie."

"Oh, yes - and one more thing. What room is she in?"

"Room 4."

* * *

Later that night, after James put the boys to bed, he retreated to his parlor, dressed in his bathrobe, and and lit a fire in the fireplace. He sat himself in a cushy chair in front of the dancing orange flames, and just watched them for a while...waltzing with each other, to the sound of a silent tune, flying around the hearth and carrying on. When it was completely silent, and the only sounds in the room were from the fire, James slowly reached over to his table - slowly, as if his motions were to interrupt the silence - and curled his delicate fingers around the spine of his black journal and fountain pen. He moved them both to his lap, and opened the journal to a blank page. He had had a good day over all, not counting the morning's events. He watched the fire again for a few quickly passing minutes, then let his words pour out onto the paper. 

**December 1905**

_What bothers me is the manner in which it is done. Stomping in, nose in the air, back as straight as a wooden plank, and then speaking in that mocking, almost accusatory drone. "You and the children should move in with me, James. It's out of the question for me to move in here." I don't want to leave my home, and I'm sure the boys don't either. I haven't told them of their grandmother's visit as of yet, and I don't plan to until tomorrow. They all had good days in school today, and I had a great day of my own. There's no sense in spoiling the day, or changing their dreams from the proper things little boys should dream of, to evil, wretched thoughts of life with that...that...woman._

_I won't say she doesn't have a right to take them to her house to live with her. On the contrary, she has as much of a right as I do to move them if I wished to (which I don't) because of Sylvia's "joint guardianship." What on this Earth had been going through her mind when she decided on that? She knew perfectly well how much her mother hates me. Ah, but I can't be angry at her now; God rest her soul. But then again...if she had only asked ITALICS me ITALICS to watch her boys, and not her mother, Mrs. du Maurier would snatch them away anyway. The entire thing is a bloody mess, if you ask me. But onto the better parts of the day..._

_I decided to take an outing to the orphanage today. I was glad I did too. The lot of us had a grand adventure on the sea. I was the captain, and we all used umbrellas to try and shoot down the enemy ship. It was most exciting. And when we were finished, a group of nuns that had been watching were applauding us, and the one I talked to invited me back another time._

_A girl there - Gretchen - has two missing front teeth, and one extremely jiggly one ready to pop out. I told her about the Tooth Fairy, but realized before I left, that this was a terrible thing to do. To tell her about the Tooth Fairy when no one knows to place anything under her pillow for her. I'm afraid to let her down. Though I do think I have an idea to fix my folly. It's a bit crazy, but if I'm not caught and put in jail, it actually might work._

_The rest of the night was uneventful for the most part. Dinner went as it usually did. Laughing and joking, and a perfect ham. One of the best, I'd say._

_I'm sorry my thoughts are seeming a bit frayed now, and my writing a bit scrawly, but I'm awfully tired, and I could slip off at any time now. So I'll bid adieu for the night. Sweet dreams._

_J.M. Barrie_

James closed his journal, setting it and his pen back on the table. He directed his attention back to the flames, watching them dance again. They seemed so happy. So unlike what he was feeling right now. He just couldn't stop thinking about Mrs. du Maurier. About the boys.

A log fell, causing cinders to be spit out onto the carpet. James had forgotten to put the screen up again. But that would destroy the picture, distort the fire, choke the smell, dim the light. It didn't matter, really. A few cinders would clean up easily.

His eyes were becoming extremely heavy now. But he didn't want to fall asleep. Not now. He needed to think. What could he do to get away from Emma du Maurier? What could he possibly do?

The lights now seemed to turn themselves up to their full potential, stinging James's eyes. He closed them to clear the burning, and when he opened them, he no longer was in his parlor, but standing atop a balcony, looking over a dance floor. A string quartet was playing Handel's "Water Music" on one end of the circular room, though the sound was equally heard from every angle in it by the dancing, laughing attendees of this grand party.

The room was spectacular. It seemed to be made of pure gold, the way it was sparkling. A chandelier hung over the dance floor, as big as a cathedral. There were two staircases leading down to the dance floor, one on either side of the balcony. Red velvet, completely free of stains, sloped down both of them to the very bottom.

James couldn't remember what this party was for, though. Was it for him? Maybe a birthday party? Or had he written another successful play?

While he was thinking, trying to identify his surroundings, he gazed out across the grand floor below, and after a while of absentmindedly searching for what he wasn't sure of exactly, something caught his eye. A woman. A particularly elegant woman in a flowing blue ball gown. She had white gloves gracefully and delicately covering her hands. One, grasping a glass of champagne, and the other, resting at her side. She wasn't talking to anybody. Her bright red lips remained closed, and her icy blue eyes seemed to be busy looking for someone as well. She turned in James's direction, and he saw who the woman was.

Sylvia. His Sylvia.

His heart gave a leap, and a smile came to his face. When he thought that he caught her eye, he lifted a hand and waved to her. She smiled up at him, and waved back.

James couldn't move fast enough. He pushed through a small throng of people laughing with each other, excusing himself as he did, and began skipping down the velvet stairs, feeling completely undeserving, having his polished shoes soil the heavenly things in such a way.

When he reached the shining floor, he seemed to sprint to Sylvia, and only when he was standing there in front of her, did he realize that he hadn't seen her in what seemed like years.

They now exchanged the first words they had spoken to each other, after such an awfully long time.

"Mr. Barrie."

"Ms. Davies."

"You look wonderful, James."

"As do you, Sylvia." She smiled at him, gazing deep into his dark, excited eyes. The sight almost made her laugh, but she kept that to herself. "Dance with me," he said after a while. It wasn't a command; it was a request. A request that, not to James's surprise, she accepted gladly.

As though on cue, a man with a silver tray walked by, and Sylvia set her unfinished champagne on it, not willing to waste another minute. He placed his hand on her back, and held her hand in the other, while she did the same with him. And then, they danced. Oh, did they dance. The world seemed to pause in its rotation for them, to cease spinning in outer space. And James couldn't keep his eyes off of her. A sweet smile adorned her perfect face, and poked slightly into her rosy cheeks, while her eyes sparkled with happiness. And the light - the way the light was being reflected onto her from that chandelier, you would think that the hand of God itself had brought this angelic figure straight down from heaven just for him. Just for James. Just for him to see her once more. Just for him to touch her once more. To feel her breath on his neck just one last time. It was all so real, and he had absolutely no doubt in his mind that it was. That she was really there in front of him, and he was there in front of her, and not sitting before the mesmerizing fire in his parlor, deep in what was just a dream.

The room spun around, faster and faster, James and Sylvia taking in every moment they were allowed with each other, moving effortlessly across the floor, through everyone, everyone who couldn't possibly be in love as deep as they were.

Soaking in the moment...  
Recalling their memories...  
Exchanging silent thoughts... 

Until it all stopped. Like all good things, it came to an end. A sad end.

The music stopped, their feet stopped, and conversation and applause hammered in James's ears once more. He still refused to direct his attention elsewhere, and found that his Sylvia was becoming lighter, paler, sadder. He looked at her longingly, thinking that maybe he could hang onto her with his gaze.

"I never got to thank you, James," she said, her voice now dying away, becoming softer.

"For what?" he asked, holding her hand tighter.

"For taking me to Neverland. For letting the final day of my life be with you. For taking care of the boys for me. For so many things, James. Just so many things." She closed her eyes, and he thought that maybe this was it. His absolute last moment with her.

"I love you, Sylvia," he said. She opened her eyes again, smiling, then rested her head on his shoulder, becoming completely motionless. Right there. In the middle of the dance floor.

No one noticed. No one cared. They just continued dancing away like nothing had ever happened, when the music began again. But James stood there with her in his arms. He wouldn't forget...

James opened his eyes, and looked around his parlor. The fire was dying down, and the room was much darker than it had been when he had fallen asleep. The clock ticked silently on the mantle, throwing each second into his face. He sat up straight, and looked into the hearth. What a dream. It didn't feel like one, though; it felt completely _real_.

James crossed his right arm over his left, reached up to his shoulders, and began rubbing his arms. Without the fire, the room was freezing. He stopped suddenly, though, and looked at his right arm. There was a tiny dab of wet there. Something _he_ hadn't put there. He felt it again with a finger, and then realized what it was.

A tear.

A/N: Tell me what you think.

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REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 2:  
(and 1)

**Katie** - Wow! I'll add this one to my favorite review list! I'm glad you like this; I'll make sure the rest of it stays just as good and true to the movie! I usually don't write anything otherwise...I don't do slash or plot variations or anything, and if I do, it's a joke and most definitely nothing close to serious. I hope you stay to the end! Thanks for reading and doing the thing you rarely do, and reviewing!

**H.M. Chandler** - (for 2 reviews - but that doesn't count as 2, only one...since it's from the same person ;-) ) Thank you so much for adding me to your Favorite Stories! The Peter Pan Idea - I was going to make him just say JM Barrie and end it there, but that wasn't much irony, we all know his name. So I just laughed to myself and put Peter Pan instead, because of course, it fit! I did watch the Oscars last night (27th of Feb.) to the very end to see Best Actor and the Best Original Score...but was very disappointed through the thing because almost everything Neverland was nominated for was shot down by the Aviator! Did you see that movie? Ugh! 3 hours and just so...WEIRD. Well anyway, thanks again! (I do wish you'd add me to author alert ;-) )

**Writing Muse** - Wow! Reading someone else's story really does pay off! I'm glad you took the time to read, because I loved your story a whole lot and I hoped to add you to the list of reviewers to show off! Just kidding - I'm always happy to get compliments on my work, or criticism to fix things. Thank you so very much, I hope you read and enjoy the rest! And unless you check back often, do add me to author alert! Thanks!

**oi-oi-oi** - Hear hear, friend. I was so upset when Johnny didn't win. The Aviator like...DOMINATED. And I haven't seen Million Dollar Baby yet, so I can't judge that. But I really didn't like the Aviator... Anyway, thank you so much! I always LOVE reading your reviews and I'm SO happy when I see one from you. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! I did get your review for The Authoress. Thanks to you AND your friends for all the kind things! More warm and fuzzy feelings! I wrote half of chapter two of that...and I'm not sure about continuing, but if you really want me to, I will!

**KatrinaKaiba** - I know I speak for everyone that writes in this category when I say that James is always fun to write. He's...he's very deep. lol and playful - which makes him one of the few fun adults in the world. I know it is an absurd thing to call him, as quoted from YOUR story - "Well if you don't want to be referred to as, _them_..." hah - Thanks for reading/reviewing!


	4. Terrible Masterpiece

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 4  
Terrible Masterpiece 

Inside: A story and an entry.

A/N: Tell your friends, people! If you really love it that much, then tell your friends! The more people that know, the more reviews I get, the faster I write, and the faster you get the next installment!

Special Thanks to oi-oi-oi who actually went on and read my story, _Authoress_. And what's more, she actually had a few of her friends read it and voice their opinions as well! If anyone else wants to read, it's only a chapter long so far because of lack of reviews, and it's on My penname is the same as on here, "meredithajones." Tell me what you think/if I should continue, please! 5 reviews for chapter 2 of it! Thank you so much!

Sorry for the late update...I went to All County Chorus thing (ECMEA) and it took away all or Friday and Saturday and I would have finished this within those 2 days...but I did write some, there, so you should be happy about that!

I JUST NOTICED...I have passed my 1 year anniversary on March 4th was it. Thank you to everyone for keepin me on here! Wish me a happy anniversary! And luck to stay on!

9 DAYS (from today) UNTIL NEVERLAND ON DVD!

A FUN QUOTE: "You're even more of a bitch than my dog." -JM Barrie (lol KatrinaKaiba)

* * *

_Wednesday_

A man like J.M. Barrie could use a million words to describe the park covered in snow, but today he chooses only one word:

Perfect.

Each crystal settling in the right place, on the right objects, lightly dusting the trees and powdering the benches. It didn't stop anyone from going out, though. Children were running around and rolling around on the ground while their parents sat on the benches with umbrellas, not wanting to ruin their perfectly tailored and cleaned clothing, and reading a book, or the day's newspaper. James was sitting on the exact same bench he almost always sat on, his journal in his lap, and his pen flying over the pages of it, while the boys were busy building a snowman in front of him.

"Michael, give me your scarf," Jack said.

"No!" Michael whined, "Use your own!"

"Boys," James said. The three looked at him. "Don't be undressing in public." Michael and Jack giggled, and their guardian looked up, a smile stretched across his face. It vanished though, when he realized that someone was missing. "Where's Peter?" He spotted his cap on the bench next to him.

George shrugged. "He wandered off a few minutes ago," he said. James sighed, closed his journal, and tucked it into his coat pocket.

"Watch Michael and Jack." George nodded, and James set off through the park, keeping his eyes open for a short boy in a black coat. Peter wasn't visible, though, through the anything but vacant park, which was, today, (and was almost always for that matter) filled with chattering women, laughing children, and men who had gotten the day off from work and had decided to spend their fortunate break with solely their own company. Just snow...and people. Lots and lots of people. This wasn't a problem, though. James liked people. He didn't like being alone often. Unless he was writing, he'd think. He'd think about everything, and then he'd only depress himself. People were good to be around.

But where was Peter? James walked on through the park, checking the fronts of people when he saw that their backs looked like the boy, so if he tapped their shoulder, he was sure if it was the right person.

He was nearing the edge of the park now. You knew it was the edge, because at the edge there was a long slope. So the only place Peter could be now, would be under the branches of the tree at the bottom.

James rarely went down there, and, regularly, neither did anyone else. 'Regularly', because the only time people went down to the tree, was to think. Because of this, James dubbed it the "Thinking Tree." it was an appropriate name, he thought.

He peered down the slope, and saw a small black smudge, just at the bottom of the "Thinking Tree." He smiled to himself. Completely opposite to James, Peter would be happy away from people, on his own. He must like thinking, James thought. He must like depressing himself.

So now James trekked down to the bottom, with much caution, careful and very much aware of the chance of slipping. Once he got to the bottom, where, it seemed, it was much colder, he shoved his hands into his pockets, approaching Peter slowly. The boy was just sitting in the snow under the tree, back against the trunk, staring off into space. Snow caressed his hair and eyelashes as it fell on him, and previously fallen snow sat on his head and stayed nestled in his eyebrows as though he hadn't moved an inch in at least two hours. James stayed silent for a little while, letting in the silence, and watching Peter for signs of life. He cocked his head, moving his eyebrows together as though he was concentrating very hard on a tiny spot on his carpet.

"You know," he started. Peter jumped, with a sharp intake of breath, and snapped his head around to look up at his Uncle Jim. "One's backside gets extremely wet when sitting in the snow." He smiled, the confused expression completely vanishing and his regular playful one taking its place. "It's only logical that one should join the other in getting their backsides extremely wet." Peter looked down, not willing to spare even at least a smile; but James took this as a 'yes' and sat beside him under the tree. He kept his knees up, draping his arms around them, and stared off where Peter was now looking. A deep silence hit them both, and he decided to look at Peter, to try and read his thoughts through his eyes. But that boy was someone who was completely unreadable. James would look at him, and find absolutely nothing displayed on his face, so he'd try and talk to him. It was hard to talk to Peter, though. He'd try, nonetheless.

"What's troubling you, lad?" Peter still didn't wish to make eye contact, and remained silent. James sighed.

"Little boys who open up to Uncle Jim get pastries from Hollinger's," he said, almost desperately. Peter could hardly care about Hollinger's Bakery, but decided to speak anyway, in a quiet and shaky voice.

"They won't stop," he finally said.

"Who won't stop?"

"The boys at school."

"What are they doing?"

"They keep calling me Peter Pan." James blinked, clearly confused.

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?" he said, "Your name was used in a famous play! They're probably just jealous. That's what they are. Jealous." This notion made Peter's blood boil. Why would anyone be jealous of that?

"No! You don't understand!" It was like night and day. The boy's voice rose, and he turned his head to face James. Tears were welling up in his eyes, willing themselves not to fall. "They don't mean it as a good thing! They think of me as a child! That I'll never grow up! A pet to a playwright!"

"Peter, you're not - "

"No! Why did you have to use my name? Why mine? You used Michael's for a smaller role, why didn't you use George's for the lead one? Now I'm picked on for it! All because of that - for that - that - that terrible masterpiece of yours!"

"Peter, I wasn't meaning to do any harm when I used your name in my play. You wanted me to, you said so. You said yes." Peter didn't respond this time, only got up from the ground and ran off up the hill. James was shocked. It had happened so quickly, and out of no where, out of the blue. Peter had been happy the past few days. Where was all this coming from? Had this been occurring before yesterday, and had been covered up with a happy face, only for it to burst later on?

Peter ran towards the bench his brothers were in front of, snatching his black cap up from it as he ran.

"Peter!" Jack called after him. "Where's he going?"

"Come on, boys, we're going home," James said, walking fast behind Peter, not wishing to lose track of him.

"But Uncle Jim, we're not finished with the - " Michael started.

"Let's go!" James said over his shoulder, his accent flaring so that the human ear could barely tell what he was trying to say. Jack sighed. "Come on," he said. Michael jumped on George's back, and the three followed James and Peter all the way home.

* * *

Dinner was a silent affair. No one spoke, just ate. Michael, George, and Jack would look up at James occasionally, but he just continued staring down at the silver scaled fish in front of him, his fork delicately picking out the meat, and not daring to make contact with the plate. Once, Michael dropped his fork, but still no one moved a hair, nor breathed a word. 

"Alright - everyone in bed, lights out," James said, as he walked into the boys' room to tuck them in. He was in a considerably better mood compared to the one he was in during dinner, but that didn't stop him from thinking about what Peter thought was a huge mistake of his. He had spent the time after the meal in his parlor, in front of the fire. He felt guilty now, and hiding himself meant hiding his guilt.

Where _had_ the summer gone, anyway? Why couldn't it have been the way it used to be, forever? Just fun and games all the time? But school had to come, and with it, came to James, the realization that he had to be a _father_ to these children. He had to make sure they bathed, and brushed their teeth and hair, and cleaned their room. But he couldn't. It was almost unthinkable. And if the time came, he knew he couldn't bring himself to punish or scold any of the boys. It was already difficult to put them to bed at night...

Once everyone had crawled into his bed, James went around giving kisses goodnight to each boy.

"One for you...and one for you...and one for you - " he blew a raspberry on Michael's chubby cheek, as he did every night, and every night Michael would giggle, his head hitting the pillow and putting the rest of his body to rest. And then, he came to Peter's bed, beside which the only three candles left in the room that hadn't been put out, were. He blew them out, then gently kissed the boy's forehead.

"Goodnight, Peter." Peter shook his head, and spoke for the first time that night.

"Why, Uncle Jim? What does it matter if a character's named after me? What does it matter? What should make them tease me so?"

"Go to sleep, Peter," James said sadly, making his way to the door. He exited the room, and as he closed it, he heard Peter whisper: "That terrible masterpiece..."

* * *

**December 1905**

_Guilt. It's horrible, it really is. No human being should ever feel this way. Why do I feel it, though? I'm not the one who's been teasing him. If you think of it from an adult's point of view, it doesn't seem so horrible. But from a child's point of view - oh, that's entirely different. Bad things take away very much from a child. Depending on who you are, it either makes you weaker, destroys you, or makes you stronger, and hardens you; toughens you. Peter's strong, I can tell he is. And although he doesn't display it to the average human witness, his spirit is almost the exact equivalent of a caged lion: wishing to be free, but very much unable to; inept to finding a loophole._

_I was a bit like him, in fact, when I was a lad. Though, unlike he, I didn't even have my very identity to depend on. I was trapped in my brother's spirt. My brother's character. And this I was poked at for, the same way Peter is poked at for because of my play. But of course, I was also picked on because of my height and size. I was a wee bit over five feet - and have been since I was thirteen years old. Needless to say, I wasn't in the direct interest of the females._

_Terrible masterpiece, he called it. Is that what it is? I suppose maybe it is, if it's tearing me away from him like this. I can't stand it. Maybe what I'm doing, or at least, trying to do, will make it up to him._

The downstairs parlor was cold. James had decided to write down there instead of in his bedroom, late, and had only just lit the fire, whereas if he had had his mind made up earlier, the fire would have already been lit, and the room, warm. He was only dressed in a white shirt (which was messily untucked from his pants and by now wasn't fully buttoned) and a pair of black socks to match said pants. He was lacking a blanket, partially because of laziness, and the other part having to do with that he knew the parlor would warm up eventually, and his need for a blanket would be eliminated, making him _too_ warm. All of this was very important.

Porthos was sleeping on the carpet in front of the fire, as if he didn't have a care in the world. James looked at the enormous dog, searching desperately for inspiration, but found none. He stared at his journal entry he had written to clear his mind and warm up his hand (though it had done neither), became frustrated, turned it over, and only found the bane of an author's existence - the blank page. On this blank page he wanted to write a new play. For Peter. He couldn't stand the boy being angry with him any longer and hoped this would make it up to him, to somehow erase his anger toward his Uncle Jim. But it wasn't easy. For one, the play had to be good enough to please Peter, who wasn't particularly easy to please. And the second point was that no writer should ever force himself to write. Usually the writer would get bored and waste time by doodling in the margins of the paper, or write something of poor quality. _I should just go to sleep_, he thought. But he couldn't. He had to begin this play _now_.

So he lay there on his stomach, tapping his pen on the pages of his journal, eventually lying his head on top and closing his eyes to think. _What to write, what to_ write..._well I need an opening, to set the tone, and tell a little about the setting...then I'd need a Narrator. That's fine. Charles won't mind paying a bit more money for an extra actor._ He smiled at the thought, picked up his head from the pages, having to peel the top one off of his cheek. Then he began to write. Words were coming slow, but at least some were coming to mind...

He imagined himself in Scotland, where he had decided the story would take place. A carriage was bumping down a dusty country toad, riding over the rocks that were pounded securely into the hardened mud...

_**NARRATOR/MR. BARRIE:** And who is inside but a traveling musician, coming to the town to perform at a party for the birthday of Sir George del Prince. Who is he, you ask? Well he's only the most powerful man in all of Scotland. He owns nearly everything in our little town. The inns, the parks, the shops and markets - everything. And of course he's respected by the good people in the town. Not very much liked, but respected...

* * *

_A/N: Here's a little something the rest of the Depp fans I know might be interested in... 

(Courtesy of zanichellihappening.it)

How did Depp get along so well with the young English actors who played the Davies boys?

There was a little secret: Depp had a little device which made strange noises when he squeezed it.

"It was really useful because we were acting with these kids all of the time," Radha Mitchell, who played Mrs. Barrie, said, "English children are so educated and they don't ever say anything out of turn. So he squeezed it during scenes and you could see them trying not to laugh. It was great for what we were doing. So he has a lot of fun on set."

I almost died when I read that. Ok - that's all for now. hee. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Stick around.

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REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 3:

**emmyruth** - I'm glad you like this! I hope you continue to check back so you can read this chapter! I was very sad about the Oscars too. Johnny totally deserved to win Best Actor, I think he did an amazing job in Neverland. Anywho - thanks for readin and being my first of the five reviews i need to post this chapter!

**Sam's Cotton Socks** - Hahaha! If you stab me, it BETTER be with love. And BE HAPPY - I updated! GOSH!

**H.M. Chandler** - Soooo much planned. I'm glad you're enjoying it, cuz there'll be a lot more! Thanks for adding me. I looked under my Stats yesterday and was surprised to find i was on the Author Alert list for 33 members! It's a lot to me lol! Sure, I'll read your story, I'd be happy too. I took a look at it, and it'll probably take me a while to get through the whole thing with school and writing my brains out, because it's kinda long...but that's ok. I wrote a 16 chapter story once (Harry Potter and the Golden Bell) and I got a lot of reviews saying things like: "My eyes are burning, because it's so damned long!" Well anyway, thanks for readin, as always, and I can post this chapter as soon as I get one more review...

**KatrinaKaiba** - I'm a very talented writer? I write descriptive and heart-filling? Aww! (hugs!) Thank you! I am very happy with myself! I hope you enjoyed the update, though it really wasn't much. Don't worry, I've got a bit more of a storyline comin along, so just keep being as patient as you have been. ;-) And yes, you're quotes are in good use. lol! You have so many good ideas too - I loved in your story when Porthos stole James's shoes - and then the party - it was all so great. That chapter stalled me from getting out the door when we were traveling to Albany! Thanks for staying with me from the very beginning, I appreciate things like that very much!

**oi-oi-oi** - Oh, it's alright. I'm sorry for not updating fast enough! The journals are so fun to write...you get to really get into his mind and it's just so great to write things from his point of view...and he releases a lot of his anger, or annoyance into his journal. So he expresses a lot of emotion in there, and if someone were to read it they'd know exactly how he feels...kind of like reading your little sister's diary! And oh yes, I've got some plans for the Tooth Fairy...that should be chapter 6, maybe..so keep readin. Yeah, I was thinking about Arthur there...I was pretty careful about that part because I always stay faithful to the movie when I write things. I was thinking about making them kiss but that would be too far...and her saying that she loves him back would actually be going even farther because she really loved Arthur and all that. Thanks for another review - just how I like em, good and long and full of "i love yous" lol!


	5. The Man With Words On His Face

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 5  
The Man With Words On His Face 

Inside: Two stories, an entry, and the acquisition of JM Barrie's of a grand idea which you'll find out more about in the next chapter.

A/N: Last chapter was mostly factual. Read Neverland's Sparrow's review reply for more. I found another cool fact bout the creation of Wendy...

**BARRIEFACT**: JM Barrie knew a little girl, Margaret Henley, who died when she was six years old. She called him her "friendy" and she had a lisp, so she'd always say "my fwendy" or "wendy," and so, after she died, JM made her immortal in a way by naming his heroine in his play Wendy.

I hope this chapter was well worth the wait! ;-)

OoOoO

Sunlight poured through the windows of the parlor. James had forgotten to draw the curtains the night before, and now was woken up at seven o'clock by the intrusive light cutting through his eyelids like a hot scalpel. He squeezed his eyes shut at first, and then opened them slowly. Groaning, he began to pick his head up, but something was ripping at his face. He looked at what might be causing this, and found the top page of his journal stuck to his cheek. James peeled it off and looked at it, to see only vague pictures of words remaining. He felt his face, and found it was sticky. Clearly, he had fallen asleep on wet ink.

He forced himself up, closed his journal, and brought it upstairs to the bathroom with him. In the mirror he saw small fragments of his own sentences on his face. _"Better than"_, _"everyone did just"_, _"all the folks"_, _"every time they." _Frowning, he picked up a cloth and a cake of perfume scented soap, and after running both under water, began to scrub at his cheek. After a while of very little success in completely erasing the ink, and only making the background of the text a deep red, James gave up and went to his room to change into a clean outfit. Once he did, he went down the hall in the direction of the boys' room. Familiar chattering and bustling was heard from behind the door - a good sign, since the boys all had to get to school, so James decided to enter.

"Uncle Jim!" came Jack's voice. He pushed through George and Michael, who were both hovering over the furthest bed from the door, and over to James. "It's Peter - he won't get out of bed. He says he's not going to school." The older man looked up at George and Michael across the room, tapping his cane with the dog head ornament on the floor, then back at Jack.

"Well, you can tell Peter that it's fine if he doesn't want to go to school, but he does have to get decent and washed and meet me downstairs in ten minutes."

"Do I have to go to school, Uncle Jim?" Jack asked hopefully.

"Aye, you do. Because little boys who are able to go to school without the weight of other people's meaningless words stuffed in their little ears _should_ go to school." James and Jack both looked in Peter's direction, but the boy himself remained still and silent under the safety of his comforter.

"So I expect the rest of you downstairs in _five_ minutes. Porthos - " James tapped his thigh with his free hand. "Get over here, and drop Michael's underwear." Porthos, who had been sitting under the window, whined and hung his head guiltfully, opened his mouth, dropped the cloth, and licked his lips to get the moistness to return to them. George pat his head, and the dog walked out the bedroom door.

"Ten minutes, Peter. I know you can hear me."

OoOoO

James paced in the foyer in front of the front door, tapping his cane and looking at the clock on his wall frequently. Porthos sat there watching his master, his eyes moving back and forth, much like a pendulum. Once James noticed this, he stopped to look at the dog, who whined and licked his nose.

"You better not be staring at this, Porthos," he said, tapping the ink on his right cheek. Porthos barked, and James smiled.

"As long as you admit it, there's no harm done." He directed his attention at the top of the stairs, where Peter was standing, dressed in a black vest, knickers, and stockings, with a brown jacket over it, and his cap on his head. His shoes were polished and shined brightly, the gold buckles on them just as shimmery.

"Did they leave already?" he asked after a few moments, resting his hand on the banister and his expression nothing but seriousness. This reminded James of a certain woman he used to know. He fixed his face in the same fashion, careful though, so it didn't look mocking.

"Yes, they did." Peter looked out the window next to the door, then said, "Where are we going? To the park?" James nodded.

"Aye."

"Why?"

"A few reasons."

"Name them." James raised his eyebrows. "I want to talk to you," he said.

"Is that all?"

"I want to write. I need to write something for a friend of mine...at the orphanage. She'll be losing a tooth soon." Peter nodded knowingly (after all, if James and his grandmother weren't taking care of him, he'd be at the orphanage himself) and began walking down the stairs.

"It's better than having to go to school," he muttered.

"You'll have to go tomorrow," James said. Peter spun around on his heel and looked up the few inches he was lacking to being the same height as his guardian. "You can't make me."

"I made you stay home."

"I wanted to stay home." There was a pause. "What's on your face?"

"I believe it says "Better than everyone did just all the folks every time they came to town"," James responded, thinking if the fractured sentences put together made any sense at all. Peter stared, trying to figure out what could have happened, but shook his head and opened the door when he couldn't.

"Ay - Porthos," James called. The dog got up and James followed the two out of the house.

OoOoO

Porthos seldomly needed a leash. He knew to follow James, and never had any urge to run away. The only time he'd find himself on a leash was going to the park, where all dogs were _required_ to be on leashes. His tongue hung out of his mouth, with what looked like a smile on his face, as his head snapped around in all directions, anxious to see every angle of town. He was walking next to James, with Peter on the other side of him, who was trying to keep a low profile in case someone he knew from somewhere spotted him.

Once they reached the park, James found his bench unoccupied, as it always was. He sat himself down, Peter sliding on next to him, and Porthos laying down with his nose in the snow, watching the overdressed residents of the city. James watched them as well for a while, then took his journal out of his coat pocket, and opened it to the next blank page.

"What are you writing about for your friend at the orphanage?" Peter asked. James was a bit startled by this, and looked at the boy.

"I'm not sure yet. You could help me if you'd like," he responded with a bit of a smile. Peter shook his head, and took out his own leather bound book and a pen.

"it's alright. I've got a few things of my own I need to write down." The author smiled, watching the youth begin to write. At least he had an idea. James himself was blank. So he searched his surroundings for inspiration as he often did when encountering writer's block. Or any other time for that matter. He almost always watched people when he went places. Sometimes he'd be sitting on his bench with absolutely no idea in his mind to write about, at times like now, and a couple, or a group of women would come sit next to him and start talking. Then he would start writing. Writing down everything they said, everything they did. Then he'd read it all over later and use parts in whatever project he was working on at that time. Women were the best to listen to. They talked the most, and about, what James thought, were the strangest things.

But nothing like that happened now. Though after scanning the park, he did find that there was someone. An older woman. She was sitting on a bench underneath a tree only a few feet away. A book was in her hand. James couldn't see what the title was, but it was big. The mystery woman sat up straight, her face a mix of what seemed like jealousy and seriousness. Her right hand held the book, while her left sat in her lap. She wore a long dark purple dress, with a matching bonnet that tied under her chin with a black ribbon, and gloves that were adorned with the most perfect lace. Her black leather boots looked to reach her knees, and were tied with leather string up the sides as tight as a young lady's corset. Comical, yet serious, this character was. So James wrote about her. Everything about her. Right down to the gray curls pinned up into her bonnet...

**Winter 1904**

_Uncle Jim let me stay home from school today. He wanted to go to the park, so naturally I accompanied him. He's sitting next to me on this bench. His hand is flying. How does he think of things? Ideas and things; how does he do it? I sit down and nothing ever comes to me. But he's always thinking of something, it seems. If I were to enter his mind, I would surely become completely lost. Twists and turns and words I've never heard of, and sentences I never even knew could be made._

_He keeps looking up at this woman. She looks as though she's just eaten an extremely smelly piece of fish to me. She just glanced over here. She's looking a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it's the fact that she's being stared at and written about in some man's journal..._

And indeed the woman was getting uncomfortable. James would look up frequently, taking in every inch of the woman and writing about it. She looked away from her book, and the two made eye contact for a second. He looked away quickly, scribbling down his latest discovery, and she squirmed in her heavy dress.

_She's seen me now. Fidgety, this one..._

James looked up, having heard the slamming of a rather large book. The woman was getting up now, heading through the snow and over to the bench. Once she got there, she stopped dead in front of the two, her arms crossed over the book, which now could be made out as _MacBeth_. James and Peter both looked up at her, as though they weren't doing anything wrong at all. Peter had, and would admit, that he too had begun to describe the woman in detail, though not as much detail he was sure that his Uncle Jim was going into.

"You know," she began, in a deep voice that wouldn't suit a woman in the least bit. "Writers can be particularly intimidating sort of people."

"And what would make you come to that conclusion, Madam?" James said politely.

"Watching you for the past few minutes," she responded, not taking her eyes off of him, as though he were about to jump up and run off at any moment.

"Ah. I see. And suppose the writer was writing about you?"

"Well I suppose that would make him increasingly intimidating then." She looked down at the journal in this man's lap. His handwriting was especially difficult to read when he had hit inspiration, so reading it upside down would be almost entirely impossible. "What are you writing about me?"

"A writer keeps to himself, Madam. They write down their thoughts, which are very personal things and ought to be kept to oneself. If everyone shared their thoughts, there'd be nothing to write about." Peter looked at James, now listening ever more intently. The woman just stared at James, and then noticed something peculiar.

"My, my. I do say I've never met a man with words on his face before," she said, a kind of devilish smile coming to her own face.

"I must be one in a million," James said, smiling back. This even made Peter smile; maybe the first time he had done it in quite a few days.

"Well, Man With Words On His Face. I'm Elisa Babcock." She held out a gloved hand.

"J.M. Barrie." He took it in his hand and shook.

"Ah, J.M. Barrie. I've read many of your plays and novels. And not to mention seen countless. Peter Pan was my favorite, as I'm sure many have told you."

"Aye." James nodded.

"It's quite an honor to meet you in person, I must say."

"Well, thank you. It's an honor to meet you as well."

"Oh, well I can hardly say I'm one to be recognized anywhere," Elisa said, chuckling a bit.

"Meeting anyone new is an honor. No matter what their level of fame." The woman smiled.

"Interesting the way you look at it. Anyway. I must go - do you have the time?"

"Yes, yes - " James took out his pocket watch. "Quarter to eight."

"Thank you very much, Man With Words On His Face."

OoOoO

James had indeed made a mistake of telling the boys about moving in with their grandmother one day prior to doing so. Michael had nearly thrown a fit, and the looks of disappointment on George's and Jack's faces were almost unbearable to look at. Peter, with his unreadable face, only went upstairs and began to pack. And that's all they could do was pack.

He knew a man who lived in the next town who bought and sold houses. Though James wasn't sure he wanted to let go of his house just yet. Just in case the old bird decided to let go whilst they were living with her, he instructed his friend to only lease the house. The furniture would be left, but the temporary residents would be advised to take care of everything as though it was their own. The maids would stay, and Mr. Barrie would pay them, so that said residents wouldn't have to worry about things like that.

The friend wished for James to meet with the temporary residents, whom had already claimed the home, but James couldn't get time in that day. He had to pack up everything and clean with the children so that the home would be surely fit to be leased.

Since the family and the maids put together had always kept the house in complete order, the only things that needed to be cleaned were of course the boys' room, and James's desk. He spent hours on the desk in his bedroom, throwing out things he didn't want at all, and packing every paper and old journal into suitcases and boxes, until there was absolutely nothing left in it.

Later that night, after James finished gathering up everything of his from the living room, and from the library, and from all the other rooms in the house, he and Porthos, who was carrying a small vase in his mouth, walked up the stairs to his bedroom to pack it all. Then they both entered the boys' room, where Jack and Michael were tugging against each other on both ends of a pillow.

"It's mine!" Michael said through grit teeth.

"No, it's not! It was closest to my bed!" Jack responded. George straightened himself, after picking a shirt up from the floor.

"Michael found a pillow on the floor between their beds and there's one missing from both beds, so they can't tell whose it is."

"Well this is easy - we're giving all of the linens to Gloria tomorrow morning, who's washing them. They're all staying here. But before they go..." James walked over to the two boys, and took the pillow from them effortlessly, and smiled.

"What did you do that for, Uncle Jim?" Michael said. Peter, who was packing his own suitcase, looked up from it.

"For this," James said, knocking little Michael to the floor with it.

"Ouch, Uncle Jim! That hurt!" Jack smiled.

"Well, let's get him back for it!" he said.

"Oh no!" James said, backing up a bit, as the two boys both grabbed pillows off their beds. George laughed and grabbed his own.

"Charge!" Michael shouted, his little legs carrying him over to James, whom he jumped on and tackled to the floor. George and Jack could nearly die from lack of oxygen laughing at this sight. Peter even stifled a giggle, watching Michael struggle with the now unarmed man, who was also, laughing as the other boys were, barely taking a break to come up for air. Jack and George nodded at each other and joined in on the tackle, and soon the four children, _not_ including Peter, who watched for now from the sidelines, were rolling about on the floor as though they were the happiest they could ever be, and forgetting completely that this would be the last night they would be in this house for a very long time.

A/N: So...didja like it? Halfway through, I was thinking: "wow what a filler" but after finishing and reading it over, I found that I liked it a lot! Maybe I can actually write! Well anywho...I'll try to get to finishing Chapter 6 faster. It'll be easy because I probably won't have any writer's block along the way because of all the ideas jotted down at the end of this document! If I were to mess up when copying and pasting this into a new document to upload into you'd probably see what's happening up to Chapter 8! More's on the way, keep looking!

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 4:

**emmyruth**: I'm glad you like what you're reading! Thanks for reviewing! Every review is closer to five...and that makes you closer to chapter five!

**Neverland's Sparrow**: I was a bit confused as to who you were when I first saw your review but at the mention at your quote being used at the beginning of my story...well...I kind of figured it out lol! Thanks for the compliments and everything! And I won't say any more about what's to come...just that it does get happier. :-D And actually, that's factual, about Peter. Peter Llewelyn-Davies was very much teased in school about having Peter Pan named after him. He'd get so angry, and wouldn't even talk about the play (but called it "that terrible masterpiece" if it came up) and sometimes couldn't bring himself to talk to J.M. Barrie. Kinda sad. If you look up Peter Llewelyn-Davies on you'll find how he died if you didn't know already. Also sad. (tear)

**plumsy321**: Oh, you didn't sound mean, but I was just wondering if you meant the "unoriginal romantic stories" or something else. And I'll say no more about the "unoriginal romantic stories" because I have friends who write them lol. They pop up too much in here and it's quite humorous when you scroll down and you think: "let's see...who's James falling in love with this time? Oh...Robyn? (Random name)" Thanks for reading!

**H.M. Chandler**: My fact in here was better I think lol. I hope you thought so too. Yeah, I'm in the process of reading yours, writing mine, and reading two 6 chapter Pirates of the Caribbean stories that someone else wrote! lol...so I'll read it when I get to it. Another slow update. (facepalms) sorry...that's one request I didn't answer positively to.

**Lizella**: And thank you for stopping by and doing so! Although...Mrs. duMaurier gets a thumb way down from me. (barfs) lol.


	6. A Wee Bit Of A Change

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 6  
A Wee Bit Of A Change 

Inside: A story, an entry, and some memories...good and bad.

A/N: Hello lads and lasses. If you don't like the title for this chapter (I don't know why you wouldn't) it's because I didn't put a whole lot of thought into it because I needed to get this finished. This is because I'll be gone on vacation from Thursday March 24th up until Saturday April 2nd. As always, I'll be writing on the plane and in Florida, so hopefully about a week (probably less) after I return I'll have a chapter 7 up. Please, please don't lose patience with me. As you can see I've been writing faster. I wrote over half of this Sunday morning! I just couldn't stop! lol! I'm sure Chapter 7 will be the same. It'll be happier, too - the whole thing will be happy, in fact. SO...read! (dances around my Finding Neverland DVD and hugs and kisses it)

No Barriefact...sorry (cries)

**December 1904**

_The last look is always the most difficult part. Walking around the house for the last time. I do hope she croaks soon, I'll miss that home ever so much. But for Sylvia's sake - I'll miss Emma too if she ends up doing the action of said croaking. Well, she didn't have to come by this morning to tell us to get up or anything, we did it all by ourselves. I hope that's promising for her. We arose from bed, got washed up and put together, and loaded our bags into the coach that was waiting outside..._

James looked out the window of the strange house. He was, like usual, lying on his stomach on the couch in the parlor. But Emma had told him he couldn't light the fire because she was too scared that the house would burn down. She of course didn't specify _how _it would burn down, though he knew that she meant that he would leave the fire going at full blast before going up to bed and somehow a log would slip and knock the screen down and then collide with a can of oil...

_So silly, _James thought. He wrote this notion down, moved his journal away from his cheek to prevent more ink from getting on him, then looked into the dark hearth of the fireplace and imagined there was a fire there. As soon as he did, it sprang up in there, warming up and lighting the room instantly. Yes, there was candlelight, but firelight was much better. Much cozier. Better to think about the days events to.

OoOoO

James and the boys helped the coachman load the coach, strapping things in funny places with belts and rope. There wasn't a whole lot, but enough. Most of the bags were James's collection of old journals, which he absolutely refused to let go of. Not because they would be worth lots of money years on to someone he'd never know by face, oh no. He liked to look back on them and read them. See what his thoughts were back then, his style, read old journal entries. He especially liked the books that were completely filled with Peter Pan. He read those most often.

"Alright, everybody in. I'll be back in a few minutes, I think I left something behind," James said, as the boys and Porthos all jumped into the vehicle. He smiled at Porthos, imagining the exact look on Emma duMaurier's face when she saw that Porthos had decided to come. How could James give him to someone else? He'd raised him from a little puppy. And in that house. That house that they were about to leave. It was those kinds of memories that pulled him back in, yanked him back to the past. And in that way, he had left something behind.

He opened the familiar door and looked inside. It wasn't completely empty, but not full either. He'd brought along everything that made the house a home, so there really was nothing left. He looked into the dining room, where he remembered the day Emma had brought him the news...

_"If you don't mind my saying, you haven't said anything, Mrs. du Maurier." James got up off the ground, taking his arm off of his dog. He patted Porthos's backside, sending him out of the room._

_"Yes, but - " Emma sighed. "James, I've been thinking about the prospect of you and the children moving in with me." He knew this had been coming. It had really only been a matter of time. He immediately thought of the blue paint splatter on the floor, and the walls covered with pictures and ink splotches, and the puffy white clouds James had painted to make it feel like every time you went to sleep, you were flying off to Neverland. He wanted the boys to feel this way, so they would fly off to Neverland in their dreams, and get away from the sick reality they had to go back to when they woke up. James's heart sank._

_"But...this is...this is their home now, you can't just take away a boy's home."_

_"Moving in here is completely out of the question. If you move in with me, you won't have to pay maids, or...worry about...anything." Emma paused. "The boys could do the work. We could just relax and maybe get to the point where we could actually talk to each other without getting in each other's hair. Sylvia would've wanted it to be that way." She gave a smile, that wasn't forced, for she almost always smiled at the mention of her daughter, her daughter that had gone off to Neverland. James had supposed that Mrs. du Maurier would become a pirate when she went off to Neverland...if she went there at all._

His thoughts hadn't changed about that. He could see her blowing Captain Hook away, and she'd be the one with the hook on her hand and the eyepatch over her eye. He smiled at the thought, and stopped at the bottom of the staircase.

_"You missed supper." James looked up at his wife on the staircase, a bit curious at her sullen expression._

_"Perhaps I'll have something later, I had a bit of writing I wanted to do," he said._

_"You sure? It was a lovely meal. Duck. Sarah let Emma cook this evening." James turned around, as if amazed that something like that had occurred while he was out, then back to Mary. "Is that right? Listen, what would you think of loaning Emma out to the Davieses for the occasional evening? They don't actually have a cook," he responded lightly, shrugging off his coat. Mary raised her eyebrows, not much surprised that her husband would say something like that, but was still a bit unnerved besides. _

_"I take it Mrs. Davies enjoyed the meal she had here," she said shortly. James shrugged a bit, trying to keep himself from saying something stupid._

_ "I imagine she could use an extra hand now and again, that's all." But Mary wasn't being so careful. She began making her way down the stairs, like a lioness creeping up on her prey. "Oh. That's very charitable of you. Perhaps we could send over some of the silver as well. And what about the linen? I wouldn't be surprised if some of hers was looking a bit shabby." James looked away. He couldn't stand to hear his own wife speak of the person he'd cared about, and frankly grown closer to than he had, she. "Please, Mary, stop," he finally said. She didn't though, and continued to affront him. "Maybe she can send over some of the things we've run short on. My husband for example. We rarely see him in this house." She stroked his lapel half-lovingly, but still a smile refused to come to her face. "That hasn't seemed to bother you for some time now," James said off-handedly, and began heading upstairs to his room._

An uglier thought. One of those memories that could stay there along with Mrs. duMaurier's news. James could only take with him the good memories, the ones that he found when entering the boys' room. He stopped there, looking at the empty beds, which were bare now because of the linens being washed. He took out a tiny black drawstring bag and opened it. He closed his eyes, and let them all fly in there, one by one...

_"He's not Peter Pan! How many times do I have to tell you?" Jack said, sitting up in bed late at night. Uncle JIm hadn't yet come to tuck them in._

_"He is too! I saw him! He flew!" Michael shouted back defensively from his own bed. James, listening from the door, chuckled at this. Michael must have seen him slip on the ice that morning._

_"When did he fly?" Jack said, crossing his arms. _

_"He did! The other day! I was looking out the window, and there he was - airborne! He must not have brought extra pixie dust because as soon as he got off the ground, he was on it again." James could barely contain himself, and laughed into his sleeve._

_"Maybe if you put it on his nose," Jack said, picking the ball up from the floor._

_"No, he'll do it if you put it on his head," George said. The four of them were crouched around Porthos, who was sitting there still, as bored as anything. James stood behind Peter, bent over with his hands on his knees. Jack gave the ball to Peter, who set it on Porthos's head. He removed his hand after a moment while it balanced._

_"Come on, Porthos, throw it!" Michael shouted. Porthos turned his eyes toward James, who twisted his face into the ugliest thing you ever saw. That did it. The dog stood up, barking. The forward motion caused the technicolor thing to launch forward, and hit James right in the nose. Everyone began laughing, even James, who had actually started to bleed. It wasn't long before the boys had noticed this and rushed him straight to the bathroom._

_"And the people of Thrums were so excited, they ordered sixty of the best trout, fifty of the best chickens, and feasted until the sun went down. The end." James closed his journal, and set it on the nightstand. The boys were huddled around him, almost asleep. _

_"Where's Thrums, Uncle Jim?" Michael asked._

_"It's in Scotland," James replied, smiling a bit._

_"Scotland?"_

_"Aye." He nodded. "It's a magical place. Not as magical as Neverland, of course, but it's magical. That's where I was born."_

_"You were born in a magical place?" Michael's eyes alighted. "So that explains that little twinkle in your eye!"_

_"And Michael. I wish for you...longer legs to carry you faster." James kissed Michael's forehead, and the boy got himself comfortable in bed._

_"You too, Uncle Jim," he said, his eyes closing, and a smile coming to his face. The rest of the boys, whom James had thought had been asleep, all began to snicker to themselves. James smiled. _

_"That was terrible, Michael."_

_"I know, Uncle Jim."_

James closed the bag, satisfied, and began to turn around, when he spotted the blue paint on the floor. After opening the bag once more, and letting that memory in, he ventured out of the house, and stepped into the coach, having his last look at his old house.

OoOoO

"Come now, quickly, quickly," Mrs. duMaurier said, getting the boys to bring all of the bags in, while James stood there next to the grandmother on the front step, watching them struggle.

"Now, I assure you that you won't regret this, James," she said. James looked at her, then back to the boys.

"I'm beginning to regret it already," he said openly.

"Oh, don't say that. It'll all be fine."

"Of course, Mrs. duMaurier. You know best." He turned on his heel and went into the house. He didn't know what for, there wasn't anywhere to go.

It was smaller than James's house, and simpler. He didn't hear the quiet bustling of the maids washing dishes or cooking dinner in the next room. He looked around at all of the paintings on the wall, and edged closer to one to read what was written in tiny print at the bottom of its frame. Then he jumped away instantly at the loud noise that entered his ears. Emma galloped into the house and over to the phone, next to which James was standing.

"Hello? Yes...yes...well I'll give him the message. He's quite busy at the moment. No, he's - " Emma looked at James, frowning. "Yes, he is standing right here." She handed him the earpiece and sweeped back out.

"Hello?"

"So, you moved in with her, James. I knew you would some day. Being...who you are."

"Charles!"

"Yes, yes."

"How did you find me?"

"Well, I called your house, and the woman there said you had moved in with someone by the name of Emma. She couldn't remember the last name, but I knew exactly who she was talking about."

"Oh, well thats good. Well, we just...we just got here. The boys are unloading the coach outside..."

"James, I have good news," Mr. Frohman interrupted. "I've been getting several letters and phone calls with requests we put on Peter Pan at Easter. So I thought, "Well, James'll be up to this, won't he?" "

"And he will! He will, Charles!"

"Grand, that's grand. And I already know your answer to my next question."

"Well let's see if you're right, then."

"Can you meet me at Lixon's today?"

"When?"

"As soon as you can."

"Were you thinking I'd say yes, then?"

"Yes, I was. Anything to get you out of there, eh?"

"Exactly. I'll be over in a few minutes."

"WHAT?" came Mrs. duMaurier's shrill voice from outside. James turned to look in that direction, then back to the mouthpiece of the telephone.

"I have to go, Charles. I'll see you in a moment."

"Goodbye, James."

"Goodbye." James hung up and ran to the door. "What's wrong?"

"You brought along that thing!" she screeched. James looked down at Porthos, who barked. Mrs. duMaurier grabbed onto James's sleeve with her spidery fingers, her eyes wide.

"Yes, I did. Now. I just had an urgent call, very much unavoidable. I'll be back in a few hours."

"Where are you off to already, James?" Mrs. duMaurier pulled away from him, as Porthos had just run into the house with the boys. James dug his cane out of the back of the coach and turned to face Emma. There was no sense lying to her yet.

"A friend of mine needs me to meet him somewhere," he said, beginning to walk off.

"Well try and be back before supper," the pinched up woman replied, a look of disgust on her face. James waved at her over his shoulder and began his walk to Lixon's cafe.

It hit him when he was just entering town. Leaving to meet Charles meant leaving the boys alone with their horrible relative for a long time; longer than James ever wanted the boys to stay with her. He tried to ignore the thought the rest of the way and concentrated more on the scene around him, and eventually finding himself on the front doorsteps of Lixon's.

The small cafe was filled with people when he entered it. It would be fairly easy to spot Charles Frohman because of his dominant beard, though. People shoved past the author as though he wasn't there, and one man nearly tripped over his cane running to meet a friend opposite him.

After coming to the conclusion that his producer hadn't yet arrived, James sat himself at a vacant table in the corner of the room, and waited for someone to find their way through the sea of people to ask what he wanted. He wouldn't order anything, though. "Just water," he'd say.

So he sat there watching the door for what seemed like hours, thinking about how darn stuffy it was in there and how much he wished Charles would show up soon. After some time, a large woman sat down at the table next to him, and the thought of how much air that that body needed, and excreted, to add to the cramped atmosphere, made him cringe. Before long, he had to push through everyone to get to the door, and stumbled out of the cafe to get just a breath of fresh air.

"Alright, James?" James looked up at Charles, a hint of surprise carved into his face.

"A few more minutes and I'd expect you to have run fifty miles away from this place." He opened the door and they navigated themselves back to the vacant table, which surprisingly, remained available.

"Big plans, James, big plans," was the first thing out of Frohman's mouth as he removed his hat and set it down between them on the table. James smiled at the husky fellow, internally excited to hear what the man before him had to say.

"What do you have in mind, Charles?"

"Well - " he paused, and held up a finger, then fished around in his coat pocket. After a while, he moved his hat out of the way and flattened a newspaper in front of the playwright. The place it was opened to had a picture of what seemed like an incredibly flashy show, and a raving review printed proudly below it.

"Sets, James." James looked up, then back at the photograph.

"Sets?"

"Sets."

"What's wrong with our original sets?"

"They're too plain, James. People can't get the feeling of being in this magical place you've created if they don't see it there." James looked up, a bit of a confused expression on his face.

"I didn't write Peter Pan for people to physically see the magic. I wrote it for people to mentally see the magic. With imagination. You know that, Charles. If you want more sets, I'll argue for the opposite option, and do away completely with the sets." He dropped the paper on top of the gray hat and folded his hands on the table. Charles blinked. "Or use the same sets we used when the play first opened." Frohman watched a man to the side of him get up from his table, then looked back at the smaller one sitting in front of him, in the corner. He restored his initial vigor instantly, ready to pitch another idea.

"Costumes. We'll call the tailor and order better costumes. You can't argue with me that costumes make a show better."

"If they're only there to make the show better, we don't need costumes either," James replied. Frohman froze, staring at his partner, then adjusted his coat, looking at the floor for a while.

"Okay, James," he said, and bit his lip. He looked back up, then spoke with a straight face. "Opening night." James nodded. "Okay? You got everything you wanted."

"Everything I wanted."

"Because you wrote the play."

"Because I wrote the play."

"Right. So it's opening night and inside the theater you've got over a dozen nude actors and actresses, in a completely empty room, in which the walls have been painted white, because, you know, there are no sets. And no costumes. Just like you wanted." James had to smile. "What else don't you want? The stage? The seats? Well we probably don't need the seats, because," Charles closed his fingers around the newspaper and smacked it on his hat. "We'll have no audience, James!" It was stalled, but the playwright began to laugh.

"It's not funny! I have absolutely no idea in my mind how you could find this humorous!" Charles swatted the table with the newspaper and James gradually ended his laughing fit.

"I have bent myself backwards for this play, James. And you and I both know, because we've been doing this for a lot of years now, that there are certain aspects of theater a play has to contain. A stage, costumes, sets, an audience - "

"What about the story, Charles? A plot, a meaning. I think you've forgotten what Peter Pan is all about." Frohman stared at James. "Sit down, Charles." the producer, only just noticing that he had risen from his seat, decided to follow the man's orders. James smiled.

"I remember when we first started this. You hated it. You thought it was complete and utter nonsense. And look at this - look at you now. You're about willing to spend every cent you own on this play, aren't you?" Frohman sighed.

"I just want it to be good, James. That's all."

"And it will be good. It was good the first time we put it on, and we don't need more expensive costumes, or more expensive sets, to improve on it. Why?"

"Because there's no room for improvement. It's flawless."

"Well there's always room for improvement in anything. But in the case of the audience, we're as good as gold. And this is because we haven't had one bad review, Charles. Not one. Everyone has praised this play from the very end of the first performance, right up until now. The only way we could completely fail is if something goes horribly wrong. And we're professionals, aren't we? You said it yourself, we've been doing this for a very long time. We know how to prevent things from going horribly wrong."

"It doesn't mean they won't," Charles muttered, just for the sake of arguing, but since James knew this, he didn't pay any mind to it. He shook his head.

"Then we know how to compensate," he said, and looked out the steamed up window for a moment, thinking, then, remembering what he was there for, turned back to Frohman.

"Was there more?"

"Yes," Charles said stiffly. There was a pause. James blinked.

"Well, what did you have to say?"

"You wouldn't like it."

"You don't know that." Charles sighed.

"The rehearsal schedule. Originally it was two hours, and I'd like to expand it to three."

"Done. When shall we start?" This seemed to brighten his partner a bit, and he began digging in his pocket again. But they were interrupted a bit. Someone near the door had begun to cough.

"Now - " James smiled a bit, and shifted his vision to someone next to the window, a woman. She had undoubtedly choked on the tea that had just been in her hand, and was now coughing particularly loud. So loud that the sound was clanging in James's ears, and he was unable to ignore it and concentrate on something else. He looked back at Charles, whose lips he saw moving, but couldn't hear a word. He nodded and stuck a finger in his ear, moving it around a bit, to see if that would help, but it didn't. He nodded again, putting on a listening face and drawing his eyebrows together to allow for more concentration.

"So. The first...in three...Saturday," James managed to hear.

"Right," he said, though without hearing himself at all. The woman continued coughing, and he persisted in thinking about anything else. He looked at her again, and saw that she had stopped for a brief moment, though it still rung in his ears, and after a while, she continued. He closed his eyes and squeezed them shut. A bit of sound became absent from the ringing in his ears, and he noticed that it was Charles's voice.

"...James?" he heard him say. "Are you alright?"

"I'm f - " the coughing began again. Unable to resist any longer, James squeezed the head of his cane, and stood up so fast the table almost flipped right over.

"James!" but he was already near the door, and gaining on the coughing lady. He glanced at her for a brief second, and her red hair turned to blonde, and her green eyes to blue -

He pushed open the wooden door hard, and ran all the way back to Mrs. duMaurier's house. And that night, he spent the remainder of the night in his new room...until everyone went to sleep.

A/N: Ending's a bit abrupt, but I don't want to put too many words in for pretty much nothing because...that's what happens. lol. Now, reading over this chapter I was thinking..."wow this hops from scene to scene too choppy..." but maybe because I'm a perfectionist and I'm the one that sees every flaw..so tell me if you thought the same.

Hey, check this out:

Me: so i think ill write  
Neverland's Sparrow: good and then i'll read  
Me: hah. when its FINISHED, that is.  
Me: sometimes if im talking to you and writing i give you little tidbits of things that i like  
Me: lol but since ur a reader  
Me: ill be doing nothing of the sort  
Neverland's Sparrow: meanie  
Neverland's Sparrow: lol  
Me: lol SO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN CHAPTER 8?  
Neverland's Sparrow: no  
Me: ok good  
Neverland's Sparrow: sometimes its good to lie  
Neverland's Sparrow: lol  
Me: well in chapter 8  
Me: james gets arrested and taken to germany  
Me: and gets eaten by pre-WWII Nazis  
Neverland's Sparrow: oh man  
Neverland's Sparrow: i didn't want to know  
Neverland's Sparrow: lol  
Me: and then they take his bones and put them in the colluseum in rome. LOL  
Neverland's Sparrow: LOL  
Me: well you know...you asked.  
Neverland's Sparrow: germans suck  
Neverland's Sparrow: and if your german i'm sorry  
Neverland's Sparrow: im german too  
Me: why, cuz they eat playwrights?  
Me: no im italian LOL  
Neverland's Sparrow: if you are  
Neverland's Sparrow: i'm irish  
Neverland's Sparrow: lol  
Neverland's Sparrow: yes  
Me: i wish i were scottish  
Me: then i would rock  
Neverland's Sparrow: sux for you  
Neverland's Sparrow: i'm scottish. i rock.  
Neverland's Sparrow: thanks  
Me: oh you suck  
Neverland's Sparrow: i thought i rocked :'(  
Me: you do...but the person in the rocking chair has no legs  
Me: hahaha im kidding  
Neverland's Sparrow: lol  
Neverland's Sparrow: that was a good one  
Me: lol thanks 

She'll be flattered when she reads this. lol. And now you know what happens in Chapter 8. hahaha. NAH I'm just teasin. ...REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! (See you all in April :-) )

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 5: only had 4, but I needed to post... 

**Neverland's Sparrow**: Yay! I'm glad you liked it! And my quote hehehe...I just thought of two quotes, that one and "You know, a writer can be a very intimidating sort of person" and I needed to use them somewhere. So that part should be very quotable. lol notice our instant message up there...? ;-) Oh yes, and I wrote the pillow fight while listening to the _happier _part of "Walk The Plank" on the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack. If you have it, you'll know what I mean. Thanks for readin!

**Yer best friend**: Woo! Yes I am proud of you and it's wonderful that you cried cuz I cried writing it hahaha! And the words on his face...we RPed that...and I thought I could definitely use that in my story so I saved it and wrote it into there! woo! Actually this makes it two of my excellent stories you have read...you NEARLY finished Golden Bell, which I compliment you on. INDIAN HEADDRESS ROCKS ON! (quack!)

**Lizella**: I'm surprised you read all four and then kept up and read five too! Wow! A lot of people don't do that lol! Thank you so much! Poor oi-oi-oi hasn't had time to read..I hope she catches up with four and five :-( And yes, Emma will appear much more often now...but I must remind you she's not a warmfuzzy character, so she's going to do some pretty evil things...I already have one planned. One idea I have should be a lot of fun to read and appears in Chapter 9 lol so you'll have to keep reading to get a good James/Mrs. duMaurier scene! mwahahaha the bait and the trout...lol jk..thanks for readin.

**H.M. Chandler**: (all smiles) Thank you! I'll finish readin when I get a chance, I'm really sorry. You keep readin mine and I haven't finished yours yet. :-( It's still minimized on my taskbar thing, I'll get to it I promise!


	7. The Tooth Fairy

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 7  
The Tooth Fairy 

A/N: I recently fixed errors in chapters 1, 3, and 6. My dad was kind enough to read and found a few things I had missed. I know this means nothing to all of you, because you're all the way to chapter 7 (applauds you all) but one of the most important errors, I think, was JMB's address. I just made up a random one - but I found a site that said he lived at 100 Bayswater Road in London. So there ya go.

Sorry this looks so long. I had to write a lot of review replies and the chapter wasn't exactly the shortest one I've written either.

_Updates/Thoughts_: So while I'm writing the cafe scene in Math the other day, my Math teacher YELLS AT ME...what's up with that? I was paying attention...to my story. GOSH. Anyway, I hope you people don't get mad at all the extra stuff I throw in the stories like the review replies and the long author notes and stuff...if you REALLY want me to, I can just put in little author notes and just the story if you want. (though I think it's all very fascinating) Oh man, I had the worst trouble typing 'Charles.' I put Charkes, Charled, Chaeles. Wow. I tried to type this fast, so I really hope there aren't any typos or anything the spell checker missed. Ari - look for a certain quote in here. You'll know what it is when you read it. The rest of you, read...

Inside: An excerpt and three stories.

**BARRIEFACT**: J. M. Barrie valued his privacy and was known to react violently when it was invaded. One day, a reporter materialized on his doorstep and, seeing Barrie at the door, said brightly, "Sir James Barrie, I presume?" "You do," Barrie replied, slammed the door, and disappeared.

OoOoO

_**NARRATOR: **(in a whisper) _The room is quiet, except for the steady, hypnotic tone of the oak clock on the wall. Zinschiel has strewn himself amidst piles and piles of music paper. Clearly asleep, though as anyone who knows a musician knows, he's not lacking the sweet treasure of a melody in his otherwise drowsy head.

The inn is small, and the walls are thin. A crash is heard from next door. _(pot falls backstage)_ Possibly from a clumsy border in the house, coming home after a night of unsteady celebrating. Zinschiel awakens._ (sits in chair in corner, spotlight moves to Zinschiel)_

_**ZINSCHIEL: **(pulls himself up from table, groggy, notices he had previously upset his inkwell on a blank pile of music paper, and hastens himself up from his chair, beginning to mop it up with a rag.) (mutters) _Waste. _(rubs his cheek) _hm... _(looks at his hand) _Sticky. _(gradually move front, center stage) _What's this? Ink? I must have fallen asleep on my composition! _(to table, picks up his music paper, turns it over to blank face of page, presses it to his cheek, and slowly peels it off) _Just as I thought. _(shakes head) _Fool, I am! Lazy, just, I suppose. _(sighs at paper) _I must play in just two days before Sir del Prince. I most certainly do not wish to humiliate myself in front of he and the guests. I must attempt to get it off! _(cross to dresser, soaks a cloth in a bowl of water, rubs face, and looks in mirror. He finds that it refuses to remove itself from his face.)_

OoOoO

_Monday_

The weekend had gone extremely fast for all four of the boys, and for James as well. Saturday was spent setting up the boys' room mostly, making sure that not one thing was missed, or out of place. The walls were plain, and James itched from head to toe to slap some paint over the white, like he had done in Mary's room, every time he went in there. He was sure, though, that Mrs. du Maurier would be far from grateful for the act, and even more less allowing.

James had found Friday night that he had been given Sylvia's old room, which she had slept in when she was still living with her mother. He wondered if this was an act of kindness on Emma's part, or a way of forcing him to mourn more often, and think about the death of her daughter daily. He knew he didn't want to be just dropped into that mentality by the old woman, but didn't protest nonetheless. After all, he did despise her greatly, but she was still elder than he was and deserved respect like any other elder woman, and of course, she was the mother of the one he had loved for such a long time, until her grave departure not long ago.

Sunday morning, the six of them went to church. Emma declared that the boys had gotten out of the habit when moving in with James, who let them sleep in late on Sundays. That had been such a relief for the boys, as they hated sitting on those uncomfortable pews while the priest droned on for an hour. No one ever knew what he was saying, but came to church just to say that they prayed sometime that week. If you were lucky to hear bits of the Gospel, you could try and follow along, and Emma encouraged this. Michael, who sat next to James, kept looking up at him to see what his reaction to all this, but he just remained silent the entire hour, keeping his head down. He didn't mind going to church if he had to, and felt actually somewhat guilty that he hadn't been able to push himself to go every Sunday, but forcing the boys to pray? It was a bit much.

At the end of the service, Emma spotted a lady friend of hers, and stopped to chat with her. James and the boys waited on the stairs up to the church. Michael planted himself in front of James, and said angrily, "These suits are like cardboard! I can't move! Why didn't grandmother starch yours as well?" James smiled lightly, but otherwise made no response to the comment.

That night, after the boys were put to bed, James went downstairs to find Mrs. du Maurier. The conversation they had was much of loud whispers and occasional outbursts of voice-raising. James had scolded the woman, telling her to try and calm herself down and give the boys at least a chance to be boys, and not have to act like little men all the time. "You told me you wanted to respect your daughter's wishes. If I'm not mistaken, Sylvia cared just as much about her children as you do, and she would have wanted you to be a grandmother to them, and not a...a...a grumpy uncle." He turned on his heel and stomped upstairs. Upon getting there, he fetched Porthos from his room, locked he and the dog in the boys' room, and he slept on the window seat.

The next morning, Mrs. du Maurier stood near the banister, keeping quiet, watching James be a father to her grandchildren; giving them their lunches, making sure they had everything and were bundled up tight. Peter kept just as quiet as his grandmother, and James gave him Porthos's leash so that the dog could walk them to school. He'd be able to find his way home, James had said. Peter just clasped that leash tightly and was the first one to trudge down the snowy walk. The rest of the boys followed him, and Emma and James watched them until they disappeared up the road.

OoOoO

"I love the new ornament, James."

"Yes, well, not all of God's creatures are intelligent, Charles. Everyone else makes mistakes." Charles Frohman smiled, as he walked with James to the theater, swinging his cane at his side.

"No, I'm serious. It could be good for you. I wouldn't try to get it off."

"I've had it for a few days now. I'm surprised you didn't see it on Friday." James rubbed the words on his cheek subconsciously and watched a pair of boys run past him, attempting to catch a pigeon.

"Well, Friday was...it was noisy and dark, and...James?" James looked at Charles, who was gazing ahead of them, his face now serious.

"Why did you run off Friday?" he looked at the playwright, who now was the one to avoid eye contact. He was silent for a very long time, then looked down to watch his own cane hit the cobblestone.

"I'd rather not talk about it, Charles," he said quietly.

"No, I want to know. Why did you walk out on me on Friday?" James looked at Frohman.

"Just as you said, dark and noisy, that's all."

"Mm..."

"Just a wee bit too noisy."

"Right, James. I'll drop the subject for now."

"You won't regret it."

"I'm sure." Charles glanced to the right, and the two walked quietly for a while, listening to the sounds of the village. They walked past the bakery, then the music shop, and when hearing the sweet tune floating out the door into the streets, James smiled.

"I'm writing another play." Charles looked at his pocket watch.

"Are you? That's good, the more money I lose, the happier you'll be. It's always nice to know."

"What makes you think you'll lose on this one? You won't, I promise."

"You've promised me a lot of things. For the past ten years, you've promised me."

"And look at that - great scott, you got a box office hit out of it! I must have done something right."

"Of course you have. Let's hear it."

"You would have lost money getting new costumes for Peter Pan if you had decided to do so..."

_"Let's hear it, James."_

"Alright. Well, it takes place in Scotland, and this man comes to town who's a traveling musician. And he is to play for the birthday party of the most powerful tyrant in the town. And in the town, he meets this boy, who turns out to be a musician as well, and they just...bond together and become friends and the boy becomes the musician's inspiration, and they end up - "

"How many actors?" James paused.

"Well...there's Zinschiel Barber the fiddler - the traveling musician, and Sir George del Prince, the tyrant, and the boy, Jacob Bins, and the woman Zinschiel falls in love with, Harriet Laudsel, and she - "

"That's four. Anyone else?"

"Yes, a few more. And the narrator. Now at first I thought we'd need another actor for that part, but I later decided that _I _could act the part, and it would be like the playwright telling the story, and being actually a part of it."

"So you'll be up on stage." James nodded. "Interesting." Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as James watched him with eager eyes, awaiting his producer's approval.

"Do you have a script?"

"It's not quite finished yet. But by the time Easter rolls around and Peter Pan is performed and cleaned up, I'm sure it'll be done by then.

"I think you've got something here, James. I'll go for it. Now remember, I'll need a list of characters, and I'll begin an open casting call in a week or so."

"An open casting call? What's wrong with our actors here?"

"Well...Nina is planning on moving East this summer. She'll be able to be in the production this Spring, but...And the boy, we'll need - now, is he younger or older?"

"An open casting call, Charles. We haven't resorted to that in years. What about Hilda? She can easily portray Harriet."

"She's retiring after this. And we're not resorting, James, we're - "

"But she's 32!" Charles stopped in front of the theater doors, giving the playwright a stern look.

"James," he said critically. "Trust me."

"Alright, open casting call."

"Good then." Frohman pushed open the door with his cane.

"Charles," James said, putting a hand on the producer's shoulder. He turned.

"Hm?"

"It has to be perfect."

"We'll make it perfect, James."

"Completely and utterly...perfect. It has to be."

"Alright, James. It will be. It'll have to be somewhat perfect anyway." Charles entered the theater. "As good as Peter Pan - or we'll lose money!" He wagged a finger in the air over his shoulder.

"I know, Charles, always the money," James said, a smile playing on his lips.

OoOoO

Rehearsal went slow. James, though, knew for a fact that the first one always did. He had handed out scripts after the first fifteen minutes, as many of the actors and actresses had forgotten lines and cues. Naturally, Charles sat in the back row almost the entire time, with his head resting on his arms, which he had folded on top of the chair in front of him.

James willed himself to be patient with the actors. "It hasn't been a long time," he had said, "but it hasn't been a short time either." And that was completely true.

He spent breaks in the green room, making marks in his script, and gulping down as much water as he could, while Charles watched and supervised the men moving the sets around up on stage, or paced the aisles, muttering to himself and figuring in his head. He left afterwards, leaving James alone with the actors and his play. It was much easier then, without listening to the producer's commentary fourteen rows back.

James spent the walk home thinking, and sitting down occasionally to make notes, or write down thoughts. When it got colder, he sped up and walked the last stretch to Mrs. du Maurier's with but one pause. He had found himself in front of his own house. Instinct, was it? Or had he passed it on the way to the theater, and had not been paying attention?

James slid his hand into his coat pocket, and fingered the key, one of which he had kept, (he had made two - one for him, and one for Mary) that unlocked the gate. After a few moments, he removed it, looked at it, and jammed it into the tiny keyhole. A familiar creaking sound was heard as it swung open. He passed through it, and made his way up the walk. But before he even reached the stoop, the door was already being opened. He lifted his head to see a rather older woman, whose gray curls were pinned up carefully onto her scalp.

"May I help you?"

"Er - yes. I was wondering - " Her face suddenly alighted.

"Oh! Mr. Barrie! Pardon me, I didn't recognize you!"

"Oh, yes - Elisa, is it?"

"It is."

"Yes, I thought you looked a bit familiar. Are you renting the house?" Elisa smiled.

"Yes, I am. And I'm sure I don't need to ask you to enter your own home." She moved aside. "Unless of course you're in a hurry to get somewhere." James looked down the street, though really not having to think much about his answer.

"No, not at all. But I do have to be home in about a half an hour.""Oh, that's good. Well, come on in. We wouldn't want to leave you out in the cold." James smiled and stepped over the threshold onto the rug in the foyer. The interior of the house hadn't changed much, he noticed. Even the umbrella holder remained in its place in the corner near the door.

"I was actually hoping you'd come by. I did find a few things that may be yours."

"Alright, that's fine. We'll go in the parlor, then, and we'll see what I left behind."

"Hello, Mr. Barrie," Emma greeted her former master cheerfully, as she helped him with his coat. Just like old times, James thought.

"Hello, Emma," he responded, just as cheerfully, and entered the parlor. Elisa Babcock followed.

"Would you care for something to drink?"

"No, I had about three bottles of water at rehearsal," James said, chuckling at the thought.

"Oh, for Peter Pan?"

"Aye, you've heard already?"

"Yes! I'll be getting tickets for my daughter and I. My husband will be out of town. It's a shame, really. He and I were at the opening." she sat down in a chair across from James and smiled, the wrinkles in her face digging deeper into her aged face. "I'm sorry. I imagine I'm talking too much."

"No, go on. I enjoy being the quiet one in at least one conversation." Mrs. Babcock laughed.

"Well, in that case, I'll continue. Anyway, I heard about your house being put up for rent a few days prior to meeting you in the park. My house is as good as any other, but since I had some money saved for a rainy day, I decided it was worth it and contacted the man renting it out."

"Yes, my friend, Maxwell and I settled a bit of a heavy price for it. Even if it will be owned for just a few years."

"I completely understand. It's not the house you sell when you move from one place to another, it's the home you sell."

"Yes ma'am," James said, looking down at the carpet for a moment.

"I'm friendly with Emma du Maurier; I understand you know her well." He looked up now, a bit surprised, though he didn't know why. This woman obviously had money, and Mrs. du Maurier knew anyone with even just a few guineas in their pocket.

"Yes, I do."

"She encouraged me to move in. Of course, I was already glad to rent it, but - "

"So that's why it sold so fast."

"Pardon?" James paused, wondering where to begin. "Her daughter, Sylvia, when she died, she requested a co-guardianship, her mother and me, over her four young boys.

"Oh yes, I read about her death in the paper. I'm so sorry." James only shook his head, not willing to talk about that now.

"She and I - Mrs. du Maurier and I - after a fair amount of arguing, decided that the boys could live with me...but only until she felt that she was needed. A bit too soon, though, did she feel that.

"So I called a friend, and he found a buyer - you, of course. But I had no idea that Emma was that determined to move the five of us out." This seemed to get Mrs. Babcock a bit nervous, and she hurried to repond.

"Well, she just mentioned it, was all - and she only told me I should do it, I had already had my mind made up - " James smiled, and held up a hand.

"It's fine. Now, where are those things you were going to ask me about?"

"Oh yes. Yes, I'll be right back." Elisa stood, and shuffled off into the other room. James was glad to be alone in his home again, sitting in the parlor, like he always used to. He looked into the cold hearth, and remembered a certain night when he suffered from a horrible case of Writer's Block. He smiled, thinking that the next morning he had woken up with those words on his face. He looked around the room, looking for any more changes, and tapped his cane on the carpet in front of him. When Elisa came back in the room, she smiled.

"I hadn't noticed when you came in," she said, looking at his face. James knew immediately what she was referring to, as it had been on his mind as well just a few moments ago. "Have you tried getting it off since Thursday?"

"Every morning, in fact." But he wasn't sure now that he wanted to continue his efforts in getting it off now after one of his last memories of his house, and Charles's simple words.

"Mm," was her response as she too her seat and set four things on the coffee table. She let him look over the objects for a minute, then said, "I would think that the photograph of Mrs. Barrie was meant to stay here."

"It was more meant to be thrown in the fireplace, actually." Mrs. Babcock smiled.

"I'll take the rest. Thank you." James stood, gathering up the odds and ends that the woman so generously set aside for him, and she walked him to the door.

"Not at all, Mr. Barrie. Although I'd really hoped that my husband would be home when you came. He's quite a fan of yours. Read everything you've written." She laughed a bit in spite of herself. "I'm sure you hear that quite frequently."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Here you are, Mr. Barrie."

"Thank you, Sarah." James replaced his coat fairly quickly, and gathered up his cane again as he had just leant it against the wall for two free hands. He was sure that he would be criticized by Mrs. du Maurier if he was back just a few minutes late, and didn't want to waste time standing around.

"Oh, please call me Elisa, Mr. Barrie."

"If I were to call you by your first name, I'd be reducing my respect for you."

"Don't you worry about respect, Mr. Barrie." James shrugged and opened the door.

"I'll see you later, Mrs. Babcock."

OoOoO

"I'm coming, Porthos. Yes, I hear you. I hear you, I'm coming. Alright, shh - quiet. Stop yawpin', dog! Ye'll wake the dead, ye' will!" James hurried across the icy lawn to find his enormous Landseer Newfoundland tied to a tall tree as far from the house as he could possibly be.

"Who put you out here?" He kneeled down in the snow, ruffling the fluffy thing's fur, and Porthos ceased his barking fit of a minute while he hung his tongue out of his mouth happily, absorbing the affection from his master.

"Hm? Was it the horse? Was it? Did she throw ye' out here in the snow? I bet she did." James nuzzled noses with the dog, and turned his head toward the house to see Mrs. du Maurier herself, standing by the window with her arms crossed, and shaking her head. He smiled with false enthusiasm and waved his hand flamboyantly; she just continued shaking her head.

"Look at him. Now he'll come in, covered in snow and dog hair, shedding water and mites all over the place," she said.

"He's definitely an odd little man. Brilliant - "

"Brilliant, yes. But odd. Here he comes." And sure enough, he did. James walked in the door, holding Porthos's leash tightly, dragging him up onto the rub. Both Mrs. du Maurier and the woman she was standing next to looked at the two, and Porthos, as if on cue, gave a great shake, sending water all over the foyer. Emma lifted a finger and stiffly flicked a drop off of her face.

"There was really no reason to bring him outside, Mrs. du Maurier."

"There was really no reason to bring him back _inside, _James!" Porthos growled, and James held back a smile.

"Yes, but he's said that he's grateful I have." Emma stared at the strange little man, and cringed as the dog licked his nose and sat down. She quickly turned her attention back to James.

"Mr. Barrie, I would like you to meet Madame Eva Dickonson. Eva," she sighed. "James Barrie."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dicksonson," James said, bowing slightly.

"Mrs. Dickonson is head of the committee for City Replenishment," Emma said, as though it was the most important position in the entire world. James knit his eyebrows and nodded seriously.

"I see. Well, every time I see a new building, or a new coat of paint, I'll say," he did an exaggerated double-take at the mirror on the wall, "'Well, blow me down - I imagine this was the work of Eva Dickonson!'" A mocking smile came to his face, but Mrs. du Maurier, beginning to think he had gone out drinking after rehearsal, paid no mind to it. James, seeing her expression, put on a rather serious one and cleared his throat.

"Where are the boys?"

"They're upstairs reading," Emma answered.

"Ye' don't say? Well, I'll bring him up to my room then." James vaguely gestured to Porthos.

"If he goes in your room, James, he stays in your room."

"Of course. Come on, Porthos," he said, clicking his tongue to move him along, and began his ascent up the stairs.

"Oh, Mr. Barrie." he turned. "You received a call from the orphanage. It seems that a child has...lost a tooth." This brightened James a bit.

"Has she? Well, good. I'll be leaving later tonight, then."

"Where are you going, James?" Emma said, inching toward the bottom of the staircase.

"I just have to deliver something to a friend of mine. Don't wait up for me." He smiled, and entered his room. Emma stared at the door.

"I won't, Mr. Barrie."

OoOoO

"I hate being here," Peter said, fiddling with a tassel on the blanket covering his bed. "I'd rather be back home."

"Oh really," Jack chimed in, crawling into his own bed. "You didn't express much joy being there either."

"Mind your own business, Jack," Peter muttered back. James sighed and sat on Michael's bed.

"We all wish we were back home, Peter," he said simply, putting an arm around the small boy and looking out the window, lost completely in his thoughts. Two heavy minutes passed before anyone said anything.

"Do you have to go, Uncle Jim?" James looked at Michael, a weary smile on his face.

"Aye," he said, and ruffled Michael's hair. "You'll all be asleep before I get back, though. I'll say goodnight now." He stood, and gathered up, from Michael's night table, the pile of paper he had tied in a ribbon for Gretchen. Actually, calling it a pile of paper would be taking away from its importance. In truth it was a story. A story James had put the finishing touches on just after saying 'hello' to the boys when he got home. After reading it over to himself, he thought that it was good. He hoped that the girl Gretchen would think the same of it, if not, better.

James said his goodnights to the boys, pulled on a coat, topped himself with a hat, and removed his cane from the side of his bed. He then proceeded downstairs very slowly, so that Emma du Maurier's keen ears had no chance of hearing the whines of the staircase. He made for the door, continuing to keep his footsteps quiet, removed the dead bolt, and let himself outside. he found, after closing the door, that it had gotten much colder outside. The walk wouldn't be so horrible, though. The orphanage wasn't too far away from Mrs. du Maurier's house.

The town wasn't as ghost-like as James had so often seen of it when going out walking after sundown. Once he reached the village, he noticed that horses were still clopping down the streets, pulling the great black carriages along the frozen cobblestone, carrying people who were possible just returning from dinner or a performance of some sort away from their homes.

Shops were open as well, and some closing. Lights still shone through many of the front windows, and James saw customers bustling about inside, and upon passing the shoe shop, the cobbler finishing up on one last person's broken and worn pair of street shoes.

The orphanage windows were dark. James stopped before the stone angels, thinking if he should go in through the front entrance or not. He took a step to the right to look in the foyer windows, and saw that a light was on over a large empty desk. So he took a chance. James went up the stairs, opened the door, and went inside as quietly as he could. It was completely silent in the enormous room, save for the grandfather clock in one of the corners. James called out quietly a few times, and when no one answered, he made his way up to the second floor where the bedrooms were, and searched for Room Number 5. Once he spotted it, he turned the handle, finding it was open, and tiptoed in. He then began going up and down the aisles, looking at every child's sleeping face to find the one that he knew he would recognize at first glance.

They all looked so peaceful, laying there. Without parents, they were; with no close friend or relative to take them in; no one to care for them but those sweet, understanding nuns. James suddenly felt proud of himself for taking in the boys. He had spared them life here, and provided the care for them that they needed; care that was so like their mother had given to them when she was still alive, but that, James knew, would never be identical.

James stopped finally, at the foot of one bed, and smiled. He had found the little girl, and saw the shadow of a smile on her face, as she lay there dreaming. He hoped that she was off somewhere deep into her dreams, sleeping heavily and content, without a care in the world. He hoped that she was off in Neverland.

He moved to the side of her bed and slid his precious story underneath her pillow, taking her tiny tooth and putting it in his pocket.

"Goodnight, angel," he whispered, and pat her still hand gently. He took one last look around, and walked silently from the bedroom. You would never have known he was there.

OoOoO

James ran a hand down his face in front of the mirror. The meaningless jumble of words still hadn't gotten off of his cheek, but he didn't try to get it off this time. Instead, he smiled at it, and crawled into his bed, closing his eyes almost instantly. He frowned. Something was interrupting his sleep attempt. Something was jabbing into his back. He moved around trying to get at an angle where it wouldn't pain him, but without succession. The old mattress had probably popped a spring, and that's what was hurting him, James thought. But it was getting rather annoying, and he was getting curious, so he flung himself out of bed, ripped at the blankets covering the mattress, and, to his great surprise, found something that was very much unlike a broken mattress spring. It was a small blue diary.

A/N: Yes, you will hear more about the diary...stick around...

Updates/Thoughts: I didn't like this chapter or the one before it as much as the ones I've written in the past. I don't think they flow as nice and I'm so afraid of losing James's character, that it shows a bit that I'm desperate to keep it. I really hope you don't see the same thing, though; you're always your own worst critic. Yeah, so I hope YOU liked these last two, and I've still got ideas all up to Chapter 10 (and I wrote some of that one too) and these look like really good ones. I can't wait to start Chapter 8 because it gets kind of sad again...but it's going to be great. And Chapter 9 will be great too, I hope! And Chapter 10 - so I encourage you to stay with me. Please - for the sake of my sanity. I'm tired of getting JUST five reviews, or getting four and having to search for people to read. Gah! Okay, well, I'm talking too much...so...review and make it a long one. Hahaha. J/k. Luv you all!

_**ATTENTION:** _I posted today also, a poem! My first poem on here, and I'm so happy! It's a Neverland poem and it's called "With A Daisy In Her Hair." It's not super long, and I want to hear what everyone thinks of it! Please take a few more minutes to read it! Thank you very much! I love you all!

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 6:

(and 1 and 5)

**oi-oi-oi: **And that George died in World War I. lol - had to add my WEE BIT of knowledge. Anyh00, it's ok if you haven't reviewed in a while...I haven't posted in a while. This vacation...I wrote in my Black Notebook (which is decorated front and back with Neverland pictures...ask my best friend, who's Ari in the reviews, about it) up to when he goes out the door to go to the orphanage at night. And that was 21 pages in my notebook! Plus, I wrote a bit of Chapter 10 because I had an idea for part of it. That one should be good. I have good stuff planned, don't worry! I really need to be James more in my roleplays so I don't lose his character, because this story is going to be really good when I finish it - I hope! My dad - the sap he is - cried during Chapter 3...and he cried BEFORE the dance...I was like: "wow, dad..." haha...well anyway, thanks for the compliments and such! You'll get credit at the end for staying with me from the beginning if you do! ;-) And just as a note, I've seen the movie about 10 times in all...and I still cried the last time I saw it. haha! Thank you so much for reading as always!

**Ari: **Thank you, love, I'm glad you liked it. But I wish your little brain had more capacity so you weren't confused. NAH JUST KIDDIN. Actually that chapter wasn't too good...I liked Frohman and James at the café at the end though...so anyway...yes, I did use a tiny part of our RP in there. Again, not remembering what else you were going to comment about is the result of lack of brain capacity. I'M KIDDING I love you lol. And thank you very much for making sure I keep James's character because I'm sure all of my readers will agree that if I lost his character...they would have my hide for not finishing this story. And so would you. And I won't get into what else you would have...er...yes I shall go now. Ta!

**Lizella: **I come back from my holidays to find a review, how very nice _THAT _is! hahaha...and yes, I might kill you off. MWHAHAHAHA. Chapter 10 is planned too. As long as that section of my document where I put all my ideas stays super long, there will be more of the story. ;-) Hahaha Emmaeeevil. She won't be super evil witchy ALL THE TIME...sometimes she'll be fairly nice...but ya kno. Gotta stay in character. Anyway, thank you so much for continuing to read!

**H.M. Chandler: **Thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter! And I am getting edgy about finishing your story...I don't want to not read it or take too long in doing so...and I'll try hard to give you a good review to make up for the many awesome you've given to me! Thank you, thank you! And you saw how my vacation went...

**KatrinaKaiba: **Haha I had to put the convo in there it was great. I should write a fake chapter where he gets captured by Nazis...hahaha no I'm kidding. And you're welcome for the review and yes I did cry...especially when he hit Peter! I was like: gasp:'-( And yes you rock cause you're Scottish. The cafe scene was great in the last chapter, I couldn't stop writing it, I was having too much fun being Frohman. He is so much fun to write, because he's just so sarcastic and funny and it's great. Anyway, thanks for reading and all that and I hope you liked this chapter too! hee REVIEW NOW..i know you will. ;-)

and I must add this to your review now because I've just finished reading _Neverland. _Again, thank you thank you thank you. If I could add your story to my "Favorite Stories Of All Time List," I definitely would. I have only cried one other time when reading a story on this website, but not even _nearly _as much as I did when reading yours. Again, I applaud you.

**Salutarisy: **_(for chapter 5) _This review made me VERY happy, thank you! All the comments - just - guh! Thank you SO much for reading! If you ever get a Neverland fic out, be sure to alert me and I'll make a point of reading it! I hope to see more of your reviews in the future, and I hope you read Chapter 6 as well...?

**Sam's Cotton Socks: **(snort) Yes, my airport experience did suck very much. Did you read chapter 6! lol.

**piratingelvenpyro: **_(for chapter 1) _Thank you! I'm glad you got a lot from the first chapter - that's what I was aiming for - to keep you hooked. I hope you finish it, though, I look forward to your reviews!

**Alone Dreaming: **_(for chapter 1) _Congratulations, you have just given me the longest review I have ever gotten on lol. Now to address your concern - when I said: "he boys could do the work. We could just relax and maybe get to the point where we could actually talk to each other without getting in each other's hair..." I wasn't implying that the boys could work while they sit around, though I can understand how you could think that. And now that I think about it, with Madame du Maurier being a woman with money as well, she'd have maids to do work too...and now I think I should rephrase that line. hahaha. And the other part about them chatting, I meant that they should get to know each other. Again, I'll try and rephrase that part. I do understand that I need to work harder on her character. I think she's ok in this chapter (meaning chapter 7) and I have to work even _harder _for her in chapter 9 because it's mostly about she and James...and it should be rather humorous. I hope you stick around to read it! I would love it if you did. To address your romance concern, you'll be glad to hear that there will be no such romance in this story. I hope you didn't mind it in chapter 3 - you shouldn't have lol. Thank you for all the other nice comments! I hope to hear from you again soon!

**Fire Spirit: **_(for chapter 1) _Short, sweet, and to the point. lol, thank you though for taking time out of your day to read, I really appreciate it! And if you get up to this chapter, you'll see this reply! lol

**Strange-Torpedo: **Yay! Thank you for getting the time to read and reviewing with all your nice comments! I'm really glad you got a mental image of the story from my writing, that's another thing I'm aiming for! Thank you very much - I hope you keep reading!


	8. Impossible

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 8  
Impossible 

A/N: Here it is! Sorry for the wait. Have been busy...lots of tests and painfully hard social studies quizzes.

Notes/Thoughts: I looked up something on when typing up chapter 7 to look something up, and the word of the day was "yawp" so for the moment I was typing, it worked very well with James. :-) Oh man...I downloaded the music video to Concrete Angel by Martina McBride the other day...because it just sort of got stuck in my head, and you should have seen me _crying. _It's horrible! I love that song!

Notice the recent addition here in the form of a Johnnyfact. OH - and I must say this. I JUST got five reviews. I don't think that's the best you can do! Review please! And about this chapter...it's just completely and utterly sad. There's a hint of a funny part in it, but it's all sad. I realized this after reading it over. The next chapter you should get a kick out of, though - I really don't want to lose you on this!

A quote from James (in a roleplay): "Blood is _wonderful!_"

**BARRIEFACT**: One night, when the director of Peter Pan dismissed the cast after a long and discouraging rehearsal, JMB demanded that they all return to the stage.

"Impossible!" shouted the exhausted director. "Why?" James asked. "Crocodile under fourteen," the quick-thinking director replied. "Gone home." hahaha! I thought that was funny - because, you know, labor laws at that time said that children under 14 could only work a limited amount of time. XD!

**BONUS BARRIEFACT**: (before I forget it) I was looking up Sylvia's birthdate online today, and came across a website that told all about important families in history. Upon finding Peter's name, I found underneath that he had married and had three children - one of which was named _Ruthven Barrie Davies_! (The website is - look up your surname!)

**JOHNNYFACT**: "If someone were to harm my family or a friend or somebody I love, I would eat them," Johnny Depp once remarked. "I might end up in jail for 500 years, but I would eat them." (There is a VERY good one that has to do with a rooster on Go there and search for Replica Rooster. I DARE YOU. Then tell me in a review how hilariously funny it was. I'd put it in here...but I think I'd rather keep my entire theme here G rated.)

Inside: Two entries, a story, and a wee bit from an eight year old Sylvia...

OoOoO

_Tuesday_

**December 1904**

_I think Peter's been doing alright in school. I haven't talked with him on the subject in a few days, and he hasn't brought it up, so I haven't wanted to burden him with it if he's been trying to forget. Besides, sometimes it's better to leave a child alone in times like these._

_He hates living with his grandmother, that much I know. He hasn't complained about the situation to me, but his off-handed comments give me a good idea that he indeed does. The others hate it too of course, and I can understand exactly how they feel, of course. Living with Emma hasn't been much of a party for me either. It's honestly been like living in a tiny little box that I can't get myself out of even if I were to put all my will into trying. The boys and I haven't played a game in ages and I feel absolutely horrible about it. I plan on writing one for if the time comes that the old bat decides to leave us be and we're able to play._

_Peter Pan is going, for the most part, well. A few lines have been a bit misrecalled, but none of the actors have completely forgotten anything. I think (I hope) Charles is happy with the progress we made yesterday. I talked to him about my new play, and he's proposed an open casting call for one reason or another. I'm almost thoroughly opposed to the idea, but with our actors getting other jobs elsewhere, it's impossible to go on without doing so. I am in fact on my way to a rehearsal now, so I'll have to say goodbye for now. I may write later._

_JM Barrie_

James, sitting on a park bench, closed his journal and ran his thumb over the black leather, thinking. He looked up, watched a couple of older men on another bench chatting for a short time, and simply got up to begin making his way to the Duke of York's Theatre...

OoOoO

"Hey, Peter Pan! Where'd your fairy go - Tinkle-bell? Did you forget to put her in your pocket this morning? Can't fly without fairy dust, Peter! Can't fly off to Neverland, Peter!" Peter pressed a school book to his chest, his knuckles turning white and his palms growing sweaty. He was walking across the stark white lawn of the school to meet his three other brothers at the flagpole, a group of four boys trailing behind him faithfully, all with dark grins on their faces. They were laughing now. He tried desperately to ignore them, but somehow his ears soaked up every word. They continued jeering, and Peter kept his eyes on his shoes, watching them thump deafeningly on the iced over grass, as he walked as fast and as hard as he could to keep himself from lashing out at them right there. _They should all slip and fall, _he thought. _All four of them. I wish they would all slip on the ice and fall. _He was nearing the flagpole now, and lifted his eyes for only a moment to see Jack, George, and little Michael waiting for him. Almost there. He could almost get away. He wanted to show his brothers what's been happening, so that maybe they could help in some way, and be as aware of it as his Uncle Jim was. He felt like bait at that moment, bringing the meaty fish to the fisherman to tear apart with his powerful set of excited teeth.

Jack was the first of the three to see the display and tapped George for his attention. George looked upon Peter, his face turning pale. When all five boys reached the flagpole, Peter hurried to George's side, and one of the four that had been behind him looked at his brothers.

"Do you know him?" He asked Jack.

"Are these the lost boys, Peter?" Another said.

"Leave him alone," Jack said, frowning.

"What do you care what we do?" The first speaker said.

"We're his brothers," George said, "That's why." He noticed that all four of them were of his age and size, and found that it was easy to talk to them. He wasn't afraid anyway...more angry.

"That's funny, I thought Peter Pan was the only child in his family."

"No, these are the Davies orphans," a slightly smaller boy said.

"We're not orphans," George said heatedly. "We have a father."

"Oh, the playwright? James Barrie?" The shorter one laughed at this recognition. "You know what I've heard about JM Barrie and the four of you?"

"Whatever you heard, it's not true."

"I heard my father and my mother talking the other night about him." The shorter boy again. "I've heard he's - "

"_It's not true,_" George was speaking through gritted teeth now and found himself smack in front of the largest one of the group, a boy with blonde hair. "He's good to us. He wouldn't dream of anything like that."

"Are you sure about that?" The blonde boy chuckled. "I heard that he took you in for _other _reasons. I heard that he argued with your grandmother so he could have the four of you all to himself."

"That's not true at all!" Jack yelled.

"Why do you live with him then?"

"We live with our grandmother." Michael said. The shorter one nodded mockingly. "And I suppose you're going to go and tell me _fairies_ are real now," he said. George's stomach flipped uneasily, but he stood his ground and raised his chin defiantly.

"They are," he said.

"Are they?"

"That's right," Michael said.

"_Shh,_" came Jack.

"Why don't you prove it then?" The blonde boy smiled after a moment, and spat at George's feet when he didn't answer. Then he turned to walk away, his three friends following. But this was enough for the oldest Davies boy. They insult his brother _and _his Uncle Jim? He clenched his fists, waiting until the blonde one was far enough away. And when he was, he ran at him. Leaping at him, pinning him to the ground. Michael jumped, and hugged Jack's waist, burying his face in his coat. Peter watched, his heart caught in his throat.

"RUN, PETER!" George managed to shout.

"GET HIM!" the short boy shrieked, getting ready to pounce on the terrified boy. George was too fast though, and threw a free arm at his legs, knocking him into the grass.

"RUN! GO!" So he did. Peter ran. He dropped the book he was carrying in the snow near Michael's feet, and ran. He ran as fast as he could, shedding his school bag as he went. Flinging his cap off into the snow. His legs carried him away from the school, far away from the school. He didn't think once about looking back. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to see what was back there. He didn't want to see George tearing those boys apart. All for him. Just for him. He didn't want to see.

OoOoO

"James."

"What, Charles?" Frohman approached James quietly and sat next to him in the third row, looking puzzled at his script. Up on stage, Nina and Gerald du Maurier were in the middle of a sword fight. Gerald was at a bit of a loss with the hook he was clutching in his right hand, though, and was struggling through, trying to remember the footwork that the choreographer had given to him months ago.

"I'm a bit curious as to what you wrote in my script."

"Can't you read it?" James asked, leaning into the producer. Charles looked at James, seeming a bit offended. "Of course I can read it."

"Then you're unable to comprehend the point," James looked up at him, that annoying twinkly smile on his face. This only made Frohman more aggravated.

"I'm perfectly capable of comprehending the point, James, I just don't understand why you want Peter to fly up into the tree instead of atop the boulder. What's the difference where he flies? He's just trying to get out of view."

"If you were Peter and you were trying to hide from pirates, where do you think you would be more exposed? Atop a boulder with nothing obstructing you from another's view? Or inside a tree where leaves and branches may cover you. It was foolish of me to write 'boulder' in in the first place." James finished his statement, and moved his eyes back to the stage to watch the scene. Frohman sat for a while, staring at his profile, then got up and began walking up the aisle to the back row muttering something about James being able to change the script but he not being allowed to add to the picture of the play. The playwright heard this, and said loud enough for Charles to hear, "Do remember that I wrote the play, Charles." Charles plopped himself in a chair and hid his face behind the green colored script, with not one more comment to add.

The rehearsal had a half hour left, and James was beginning to get anxious. He would have just enough time to get out of the theater and home for the boys' return. He'd be constantly looking at his pocket watch, his knee moving up and down nervously, and his index finger tapping page 22 of his script compulsively. The thing he was most worried about was the boys coming home to Mrs. du Maurier. She'd be overjoyed to do what she wanted to do with the boys without having James in the way to interfere with her plans to make them young gentleman by the time they were all 15. He in truth wanted the boys to grow up. Everyone should grow up, and he knew of course, that everyone had to. Even he realized that _he _had. It was unstoppable, of course. But he didn't want them at all to grow up inside. And she wanted that for them. That's what was horrible.

A click of a tongue brought him back to the present, and he heard Charles rise from his seat.

"Wait, James...what about this? Charles should - " At the exact moment, the back curtain flew open. In ran a young boy, nearly bowling the producer down, who in turn dropped the green book with a curse. James turned to see the commotion, and found a very upset Peter, just a few rows up the aisle and quickly lessening the space between them. He stopped abruptly beside the playwright, tears on his face that had frozen to his scarlet cheeks by the cold wind that had smacked them in his travels downtown. James stood.

"What's wrong, Peter? What happened?"

"George! It's George - he - the school! He's at the school with Jack and Michael! He's gotten into a fight!"

"A fight with whom?" Peter couldn't say much more and just shook his head frantically, his dampened hair prickling his cheeks and forehead. "We have to get back there, Uncle Jim! We have to! It's all my fault!"

"James - "

"Finish the rehearsal, Charles. This is just as important."

OoOoO

They didn't speak at first. Just sat on the hard bench outside of the office of the headmaster. Peter didn't want to be sitting there. He wanted to be in there defending his brother. Explaining that it wasn't George's fault, but instead his. James seemed to be reading his mind.

"Why did you say it was your fault...Peter?" Peter kept his eyes away, and kept to his side of the bench without a sound. "It wasn't," James added, but Peter was not convinced, still showing no response. "Talk to me, Peter. Just talk to me." James gave up for a minute and gazed off absently to watch a teacher shuffle down the hallway reading a leaflet of paper in her hand. She turned the corner with ease, not having to look up, and as the sound of her shoes bouncing off of the hallway walls faded out, the silence began its slow return. Peter looked at his shoes and drew his body tight, making him appear much smaller, and looking as if he were in a tiny bubble with no room to stretch his limbs, and that if he moved an inch, the bubble would burst.

"Because," he said quietly. James returned his attention to the boy on the opposite side of the bench. He didn't prod him, but instead only sat there knowing that Peter would elaborate if it came to his mind that he should confide in his Uncle Jim, and that he might as well continue if he had already spoken. Peter did look up at the playwright's calm and listening face when he failed to answer. Then he started going back in his mind as far as he could go to where he had messed something up. When he found himself counting back a great too many years back, he decided on, "If I was never _born_, none of this would be happening."

"Oh, don't say that, lad."

"It's true."

"It most certainly is not. Now you come here right now." Peter hesitated. "Come on." He slid across the bench and next to James, who put a comforting arm around him.

"Now you listen to me. Your mother loved you - "

"This has nothing to do with mum - "

" - and I'd be blown off the face of the Earth itself if she had heard you just now and didn't cry her eyes out." Peter looked away from his guardian.

"It wasn't your fault about George, and it wasn't your fault that your mother died. And I know you think it was, don't you?" No answer. "Don't you? You know, just because someone is dead, doesn't mean they're _gone. _Hm? What did I tell you the day of the funeral?" James leaned toward the boy's ear when he didn't move. "_Neverland, Peter. Go to Neverland._" He straightened himself, looking at the small one, who still refused to react. He sighed. "Things are better now, Peter."

"Better? Better than what? Why would you say that?" Peter moved away, James growing stiff, thinking how he could explain his feelings to the boy without leading him down the wrong path of his thoughts. "It's better that my mother died? It's better that way? Better than it was while she was still alive? It's better that we live with Grandmother instead of at your home?"

"Better than how it was after your mother died." He put a bit of a stress on 'after' to be sure Peter understood. This calmed him down a bit.

"Oh," he said quietly, "I thought you meant..." his cheeks turned red and he looked away.

"No, no. I would never say that it is better now than it was before your mum left us." He paused for a moment, re-gathering his thoughts for the second time. "I'm trying to explain that...that it's impossible."

"What is?" Peter mumbled.

"It's impossible...it's impossible to live life to its absolute fullest - to get _everything _you possibly can out of it - when you're dwelling on the events that occurred in your past life that have brought you down...that have weakened your spirit." Peter looked up. "You can't concentrate on the bad, boy, only the good. That's what I'm saying. You shouldn't blame yourself for anything." James, having settled his point, left the young one alone and began tapping his cane on the floor.

Peter didn't say anything, but sat next to his Uncle Jim for the remaining few minutes until the door of the office opened and Jack, George, and Michael, all with sullen faces, emerged from it, the headmaster following. But his face was smiling, and when he looked at Peter, he asked politely for him to step into his office with a cheerful way about him. Peter stood and went to the door. When he reached it, he gave a look back at James, who gave him a shadow of a wink. The boy smiled in the same fashion and let himself be taken inside the room without protest.

OoOoO

"He only gave me a detention for tomorrow," George muttered on the way home. He and James were at the front of the group, with Michael holding Jack's hand in back, and Peter following them, carrying his newly returned knapsack and class book, and wearing his black cap. James looked down at George, not expecting him to speak. He looked up through a black eye, and spoke again through a scabbed lip, a scratch on his cheek protesting his movements.

"It could have been much worse." James looked forward again, but George continued watching his blank faced profile. "Are you angry with me, Uncle Jim?" The older man shook his head and continued dragging his cane through the thin layer of snow that was recently being slightly added to as they walked. Nothing was said the rest of the way.

When they came to the doorstep and opened the door, it was much louder than it had been outside. Porthos welcomed the five of them from behind the closed door of James's bedroom, and Mrs. du Maurier in her own way - galloping toward them with a tightened look of anger and worry on her face, voicing her concern loudly.

"Where have you all _been?_ You all should have been back here an hour ago!" Her eyes found George, but even though his didn't meet hers, she let out a squeak of surprise.

"There was a bit of an accident," James said. "Come into the parlor with me, Emma. I'll explain everything. Boys, why don't you all go up to your bedroom? Help George clean his face please, Peter." Peter nodded, and was thanked.

Emma du Maurier didn't respond lightly to the matter, though calmly and without a high volume to her voice. Words were enough to tell, though. She argued that it was unacceptable for him to act in such a manner, and that "someone with blood of the du Mauriers flowing through their veins shouldn't conduct themselves in the way that the commonfolk do." James simply asked of her definition of "commonfolk" with a cocked eyebrow and a sarcastic grin, but received no response in return, as was suspected anyway.

To avoid the pervious subject over dinner, James allowed Emma to chatter to him the entire meal over her mashed potatoes and specially-made vegetarian dish, about her friends, their jobs, the other people that worked at their jobs, those people's friends, the relatives of the friends of the people at her friends' jobs, all of the husbands of the women included in that group, and the ones that were without one, who were suspected as harlots. He merely nodded, corrected her few grammar slips, and inserted his opinion and knowledge when she came up for air. The boys remained quiet, eating bits of their turkey only to show that there had been a difference on their plate since they had been served, not once looking up from them.

OoOoO

"I'm sorry, Uncle Jim," George whispered when James bent to kiss his forehead.

"Don't be, George. You did what I would have done. I respect you for that."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you. _Goodnight, George."

"Goodnight," George said, pulling the covers over his shoulder. James went to the door and began closing the door.

"Uncle Jim?" He turned.

"Yes?"

"The words are gone."

OoOoO

George was right. The words had vanished from James's face. He was a bit disappointed when he went to look in the mirror in his bedroom. He had a brief thought that he should replace them on purpose, but knew that it would take away from the fun of it. So he sighed and went to his bed, sitting on it and taking in his hands the blue book that he had found the previous night. But where was the key to the tiny lock? He searched the cover of the book, and hit the back of it lightly, but only when he jammed the bottom of it into his hand, did a small silver key fall out of the pages into his palm. Delighted with his discovery, he united lock with key, and unlocked a time capsule from 32 years ago. He opened the book, and it cracked mercifully. He was sure that a few of the pages might fall out because it had stayed unopened for so long and beneath a mattress, but they stayed pasted in there like a fly in honey.

James flipped through, finding that every page except for the very last one in the book was written on. He didn't dare peek there, though, and decided to start from the beginning. He'd read a few entries every night until he got to the very final page. So with this decision finished, he went to the very first page and read.

**October 5, 1872**

Hello! This is my first time writing in my brand new notebook. My mum got it for me for my birthday today and I was so excited to write in it that I had to right before I went to bed. She said that I can write anything I want in here, so I will! I found a big fluffy caterpillar today. I named him Herbert. He's really nice. I walked to the park with him on my shoulder in the new green dress I got. Some people were looking at me kind of funny, but I didn't care. They were probably just jealous that they didn't have a friend like I did.

Mum curled my hair today for my party. I thought she was going to burn it all off and I was crying all over the place! She showed me what it looked like in the mirror and I realized that all my hair was still there! I feel so foolish now. If anyone reads this, I'm sure I'll never talk to anyone again!

**October 6, 1872**

I'm going to try and write every day. I just love this notebook! Mum says when I get older, I can read it to myself and I'll be able to remember everything I did when I was a little girl. I'm afraid now that if I don't write everything down, I'm going to forget it! I do love being a child, I hope I still have all of these memories!

Herbert and I took another walk to the park today. I took a piece of thread out of Mum's sewing kit and tied it around what I thought was his neck. I tried walking him like a dog tied to a leather leash, but he wouldn't move. I didn't want to hurt him, but screaming at him didn't work either. I got angry and sat on a bench and watched him. He started walking after a while and I realized that I had tied the thread to his backside!

After dinner, he looked sick, though. He hadn't moved from the same place I had set him when we got back from the park, but when I touched him, he moved his head in.

Gerald stole my blue hair ribbon today! _(James laughed at this. Gerald du Maurier, of course, was playing Captain Hook in his play) _He still hasn't told me where he's hiding it, but tomorrow, I'm going to make him pay for it!

**October 7, 1872**

Herbert died today. I can't believe I've only had him for two days and he's already dead. When I showed to Mum that he wasn't moving, she said that she thinks that he had died. I asked her what death was, and she told me that it's when someone gets very old and they go to sleep forever. Forever's a very long time.

I asked her what to do with him, and she said we could have a funeral in the backyard and put him in the ground. I didn't want to at first, but she said that it would make him sleep better. I really hope Herbert has a good sleep.

Dad said tonight that when people die, they go to Heaven, where there's no sadness. He said that you will see your friends and family again if they have died before you. I don't think there is such place, though. There's so much sadness in the world, I don't think that anywhere has no sadness.

I think that Heaven is a dark place with no light at all, and you sit there forever in complete darkness all alone. I suppose you'd get used to it, though. I'd have to be with Herbert because he would make sure I wasn't lonely.

I hope I never die.

A/N: Don't bug me and say her spelling's too good for an eight year old please. Thanks very much. Reviews are appreciated as always.

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 7:  
(and 1)

**cornishxxxpixie: **_(for chapter 1) _haha the nits in the wall thing...that wasn't even in my first draft of the story. I started this story in my second black notebook (now I'm on my third...which is amazingly cover to cover with Neverland screenshots!) and it didn't include a lot of the good stuff. I wasn't even sure of the first chapter when I read it over, but I know from experience with Harry Potter and the Golden Bell that you absolutely have to make the first chapter the best, so it's the hook, and you gain readers and they STAY with you. I really hope you'll get all the way up to this chapter to see your reply! I would love it if you continued! Thank you so much for taking the time to read!

**KatrinaKaiba: **Hahaha! Charles is AMAZING. I added parts to the "I'm writing another play" bit and when I read it over, I cracked up. I can't believe that came out of MY brain. lol. MY SICK, UNIMAGINATIVE BRAIN! The other part that made me laugh was a part I added before going to school one day: _"Mrs. Dickonson is head of the committee for City Replenishment," Emma said, as though it was the most important position in the entire world. James knit his eyebrows and nodded seriously._

_"I see. Well, every time I see a new building, or a new coat of paint, I'll say," he did an exaggerated double-take at the mirror on the wall, "'Well, blow me down - I imagine this was the work of Eva Dickonson!'"_ hahaha for some reason that just really made me laugh picturing it all in my head. Anyway, yes you are scottish you lucky piece of shite. I may consider doing that Nazi thing...look out.

**AMY: **lol what a STUPID name. Nah, I'm kiddin. Now to address the issue of losing Jim's character...it's mostly the lack of seeing it all in my head, or hearing him say things, that I'm worried about. It's getting better now that I get to be him more often than i could be on vacation lol. haha Just. What a horrible candle snuffing word. Anywho, yes, Porthos is a doll, and you just read chapter 8 so you don't even have to ask me when its being posted! lyl xox.

**Destiny-TQoP: **_(for chapter 1) _Thank you so much for reading! I'm glad you read this - and again, if you get to this chapter, you'll see the reply:-)

**H.M. Chandler: **Yay! I have 5 reviews now! (hugs you) Hope you liked my long review I sent aaand Chapter 8 of course. ;-) And you found out about the diary too! Hope you liked that idea as well! There's so much more in store for chapters 9 and 10 and I'm SO excited to finish 9 (which is already started) and post it, and write 10, because I've got some ideas that are going to be just great if I write them right! Thanks SO much for reading again, I really appreciate it!


	9. To See A Horse On A Horse

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 9  
To See A Horse On A Horse

Notes/Thoughts: I got my calendar down for this chapter so I could get it mathematically correct on the dates. (Yes it is the 2004 calendar, but I didn't feel like pulling a 1904 calendar out of the air) I had in my Chapter 9 summary below here (which you can't see) that I wanted this to happen a few weeks later. But upon looking at the calendar, if it had happened a few weeks later, then I would have missed Christmas! Couldn't do THAT! So a week later was four days from Christmas which was perfect. Another thing I realized, Sylvia didn't die until 1910, and the first performance of Peter Pan was in December 1904. I could change this error, but I choose not to, because I think you get the drift. Anyway - any more notes or thoughts I'll put at the bottom.

Tinkerbell (James's horse) : h t t p / w w w . w i s t e r i a m i n i h o r s e r a n c h . c o m / p i c t u r e s / K i t t e n 2 . j p g (copy and paste into browser and delete the spaces to view)

**BARRIEFACT:** Following a performance of Peter Pan one evening, a small boy who had been given a seat in the author's box was asked which bit he had liked the most. "What I think I liked best," the child replied, "was tearing up the program and dropping the bits on people's heads!" This was one of JM Barrie's favorite stories.

**BONUS BARRIEFACT:** My dad was born on May 9th, the same date as JM Barrie's birthday.

**JOHNNYFACT:** Shortly after the release of Pirates of the Caribbean, Johnny Depp was appraoched by a fan. "This old lady came up to me," he recalled. "A beautiful old lady. She gives me this big smile and she says, 'I just loved you in Pirates of Penzance!'"

Sorry, everyone, for the delayed update. Here's a good long chapter for you, then. :-)

OoOoO

**December 20, 1904**

_Just four days until Christmas! I've already gotten a few things set aside for the boys, but for Emma...that's going to be quite a task, I think. I'm never quite sure what she'd like or dislike, though I'd bargain that she would dislike anything that was given to her by my hands. She's such an old bat. She needs to realize that times are changing. I think that's her problem. She's so busy living how she grew up when she was a child, and isn't flexible with change. I should give her some credit, I know; she loves her grandchildren and wishes to take care of them. I don't see that as a problem. And she didn't drag me into moving either. I'm only doing this for the boys because I want to, and because they want me to. If it wasn't for them, I am completely certain I would not be living with her on my own, though if it wasn't for her, I know that I would still have the boys living with me, but...never mind, I'm not sure how to explain it all._

_Rehearsals have been going exceptionally well lately, and Charles can't stop raving to me, to the actors, and to his friends, about how good it is. "Did you like the first performances?" He's been saying, "Well, if you liked the first ones, you'll like this next one that much more - I guarantee it!" It's all quite amusing._

_Sylvia's diary has gone unread (and quite frankly, this journal unwritten in) the past week. I've been so busy with those three hour rehearsals, (that crackpot idea, I'm unsure how I obliged) and coming home to the boys nagging me to go back home and complaining about Emma, that headaches have come more frequently and so has tiredness. My (I should say Sylvia's) bed looks better to me every night, and even at rehearsals, I can't direct my attention from the idea of sleep, back to Captain Hook sneaking into the hideout to poison Peter's medicine. It's easy to let your mind wander during that scene, because Gerald does such a fine job with walking in through a hole, tipping a bottle over another bottle, putting a finger to an evil grin on his lips, and squeezing back through the hole again, and Nina, with laying in a bed completely still, that there's no need for me to ask anything of them. Sometimes I ask for a run-through of that scene (with of course many objections from the other ten plus actors) just to take a break from directing anything. I laughed the other day, actually; I heard snoring from somewhere in the theater. You can't tell from where because of the acoustics, but at first I thought it was that Nina had fallen asleep onstage, though the sound was too deep to be a woman's. So I looked back and Charles had fallen asleep! I called the Redskins onstage to wake him up. I think he was a bit embarrassed after that._

_Peter (Davies, that is) hasn't had many complaints about school lately. I'm sure there's an occasional poke at him from someone, but other than that, I've actually seen him smile more often. He did give names of the four boys to the headmaster, and the headmaster himself phoned each of their parents. I would imagine that they wouldn't be thrilled at all, and now I see that I was correct. He told me the other night before I tucked him in, (Peter) with a smile, that one of the boys ran away from him that day. We shared a laugh (more of a snicker) about that._

_Charles is so confident about Peter Pan, that for some reason, along with that 500 pounds of weight on his shoulders, he's willing to add on another 500 for my new play! He phoned me the other day that the Open Casting Call would be Wednesday (or, tomorrow). He wanted it to be before Christmas, because he thinks that "the actors coming will already be awake and alert because of stress from the Holidays," but not after Easter, oh no, he would be too tired to start another project then. I'm not sure when he wants rehearsals to be for it, but if he suggests doing a rehearsal a day for both Peter Pan and my new play, then I must smack him upside the head with a wooden paddle or something, because I'm not sure that either of us could stay _alive_ for six hours of rehearsal every day._

_Today the boys have a day off from school (don't ask me why. I don't think there's some special holiday today that I haven't been informed of) and I asked Charles to put a notice outside of the theater to inform the actors of a day off from rehearsal. I'm glad to get a chance to spend time with the boys...though they're inside the house now sleeping._

_Shite, this is getting long. And Emma's coming out. Quick signoff from me._

_-JMB_

_Tuesday (a week after Peter's incident)_

"Mr. Barrie, what in heavens name are you doing up there?" Mrs. du Maurier looked up into the tree that James was sitting in. He was sitting in the crook where branch meets trunk, his legs going up the diagonally growing branch and ending in crossed ankles. (His legs, not the branch) It was a wonder he didn't fall off.

James looked around, then took a peek down at the grass, and back at Emma. "Writing," he said innocently.

"In a tree?"

"Yes, ma'am." He nodded. She sniffed.

"Will you be up there all day? The boys are off from school. You keep telling me how you never get to spend time with them. Why don't you take advantage of the situation while you can?"

"I will." James closed his journal and looked off toward the city, hoping Emma would leave, but she persisted to stay.

"I went to my dressing table and looked out my window, and it nearly scared me half to the grave to see a man in my tree. I almost instantly realized it was you, though," she added as an afterthought.

"I'm not sure if that was a compliment or an insult, Mrs. du Maurier."

"Neither am I. But I did wonder...how _do_ you stay up there?"

"Being one of ten children, you get used to scrambling up trees to hide." James smiled. "I used to stay up in the tree in the yard through supper and watch the sunset. My mother always knew where I was, I think. Either that or she didn't care. It was a long time ago. So, I got the balance." Emma gave him a confused look.

"You really are odd." James smiled again, and looked at the house.

"The boys still asleep?"

"Yes, they are. I didn't think it ideal to wake them up on a day off when they could rest and be fresh to learn tomorrow if they sleep."

"Sounds like something you would do."

"I'm not sure that was a compliment or an insult, Mr. Barrie," Emma said sardonically. "And even though it sounds like something you would do, to be in a tree, that is, in the winter, I think it's a complete waste of a day."

"Then what do you propose I do until the children wake up?" James asked, holding his pen between his middle and index fingers and tapping the butt of it on the smooth black leather of his journal. Emma thought a bit.

"I wonder...it might take a bit longer than the time it does for the boys to wake up, but I can tell Moyra to let the boys in on where we are..."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Have you ever ridden a horse, Mr. Barrie?" James looked at her, amused and puzzled, and thought for a bit.

"No," he said.

"Have you ever thought about riding a horse? God knows you can stand the smell; you persist to keep that mangy thing in the house..."

"No, I havent, actually," James replied, ignoring the second comment. Emma smiled at this, and not her usual mocking, sarcastic smile, but a bit of a pleasurable one, one that didn't make the wrinkles in her face appear as craters, and the shimmery gloss over her eyes dull.

"We'll be taking a bit of a trip then. Get down from there, and meet me inside in ten minutes. You may go as you are, you'll be changing once we arrive."

OoOoO

"I'm quite certain, Mrs. du Maurier, that these jacket sleeves are too long," James said, showing the older woman, who was dressed snugly in white pants and her own red jacket, her hair pinned up tightly onto her head, that the sleeve of his own jacket nearly reached his fingertips.

"And the pants," he pulled the excess fabric away from his skin, "A bit baggy..."

"Roll them up," she said, a slight roll to her 'r'. "We can get you a vest though; come." She walked, and he followed, looking like a little boy having made a mistake and ordered from the tailor the size clothing his older brother wore.

"My family has owned these stables for years. Obviously the horses have changed, but the property remains in the du Maurier family. This is currently the home of four award winning steeds, five others, and two in training, making a grand total of eleven horses. It is one of the largest stables owned privately, in, or outside of London.

"My great-great-grandfather, whom was greatly admired by both my family and the community of the time, developed an interest in the subject, and after he died, my great-great-grandmother decided to carry on the tradition of owning stables in a remembrance of him, and accepted them when he gave them to her in his will. They've been passed down ever since, and now they're mine. Quite unfortunately, Sylvia has of course gone, and Gerald has no interest in owning horses or anything to do with them, so I'm afraid this entire property may have to be sold or auctioned after I die." James nodded, looking around the snowy atmosphere. The two stepped up onto a roofed porch attached to one of the stables.

"Here we are." Mrs. du Maurier opened a cupboard next to a frosted window, and a cloud of dust escaped from it. Behind it were three red hats, matching the three vests hanging below them. Each one was embroidered the same way, and the same as the jackets that were at the time being worn by both (soon to be singularly worn) Mrs. du Maurier and James. There was fancy gold ribbon circling the arm holes, waist, and lining the V-neck. Handsome gold buttons were used to fasten it, and though dusty, the red was still unbelievably defined. Emma pulled out the smallest one, and waited as James handed her the baggy jacket, pulled on and buttoned the vest over his white puffy sleeved shirt and red tie, replaced his pocket watch into it, and rolled up his pant legs.

"Are we ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's go and get the horses, then, shall we?"

The pair went around to the back of the stable where two large doors opened to the field. Emma slid one door open sideways, while James struggled with the other, and the two made their way inside.

"I have hired a crew to take care of the horses and the stables while I'm home in the city, though I still come up here occasionally to check on the condition of the property. This summer I'll be sending off money to various specialty workers to keep up the property for preservational and cosmetic purposes nonetheless." They walked down the left row, and Mrs. du Maurier laid her white-gloved hand on the top of the split door to one stable and looked at James.

"This one will be yours." She pointed at the white, brown spotted horse inside, and unlatched the door. She called to the horse's attention and took it out in front of James. He crouched down and looked underneath it.

"Female..." he absently made note, hesitantly straightening himself, wondering to himself why he performed such an action. "Does she have a name?"

"No, actually, she doesn't. We're using the unprepared horses this morning. These are the five that won't be going to compete this Spring." Emma looked at him. "I don't see any harm in letting you name her; no one else will." James put his hands behind his back, walking around the animal, who gave him an innocent, precious glance. He smiled, and began to speak.

"If the word 'Tinkerbell' slips from your mouth, James..." James suddenly frowned.

"I thought there was no harm in me naming her." Emma frowned as well, and the two stared at each other. "Fine," she said after a while, hating to have her own words used against her. The newly named Tinkerbell looked at Emma, and when James called her by name, she turned her head to face him.

"She knows her name already, look at that. Come on, Tinkerbell." He and the horse joyfully walked out onto the path, seemingly both all smiles. Mrs. du Maurier didn't scoff, but instead shook her head and fetched her own horse.

Emma explained the commands to James, and he nodded, listening to every word. After all, he wasn't very enthusiastic about falling off of the horse into the snow. Mrs. du Maurier then instructed him how to mount, and he looked at Tinkerbell, who faithfully stood in the snow, not moving at all. After a few moments of waiting patiently, though, she moved her head, blinked at him, and grunted softly, her lips flapping about. James smiled. Mrs. du Maurier cleared her throat, and he directed his attention to her once more.

"Watch, James," she said. "Just step up, stand up, and swing your leg over the side." She was now on her own horse, which, naturally, was white, and blended in almost perfectly with the fallen snow on the ground. "Go on, don't be afraid." She looked forward, and added tartly, "Or do I have to lift you up there myself?" James and Tinkerbell exchanged glances again, and he proceeded in grabbing onto the saddle and stepping onto the stirrup. He tried to get up, and tried again, and following a nervous sniff from Emma and a glance around to make sure no one was watching, James finally got himself up, swung his leg over, and let himself fall. Mrs. du Maurier smiled when his eye twitched, and when he gave her a half re-assuring grin.

"Get used to it, Mr. Barrie. Once we get moving, you'll see what I mean." James scratched his neck and subconsciously stroked Tinkerbell's mane. "Now..." he began, adjusting himself and making himself comfortable on the seat and back against the cantle, "How do I steer?"

"Oh, you won't need to steer much," Emma said nonchalantly. Did James sense a challenge? "But in case you're heading for a tree or something, you move the reins to touch the right side of your horse to turn left, and to the left side to turn right. Although it would be quite amusing to see you launch into a maple tree."

"I'm sure it would be, Mrs. du Maurier."

"Oh, and the horse will know by itself when to jump."

"Pardon?" James said uneasily. Emma only smiled and looked ahead of them. This was all clearly amusing in itself.

"Remember this as well: while you're sitting in the saddle, James, stay loose and in a comfortable position. You don't want to accidentally pull the reins when you're riding at full speed. She'll stop, and you most likely will find yourself flat against that tree we were speaking about.

"Now get yourself ready, keep your eyes ahead, and when I say "Go," hit your heels on the side of the horse. Ready?"

"Yes."

"Good - Go!" Emma took off fast, snow blasting into Tinkerbell's face. She whinnied and stepped back a few steps. Unexpecting, James wobbled a bit and watched Mrs. du Maurier ride off.

"Alright then, Tink. If it's a challenge she wants, it's a challenge she'll get. Come on, girl, let's show her what we're made of." James hit his heels against her - not too hard - though hard enough to get the signal across, and she began running, gradually increasing in speed. James tried not to look down, but ahead. The two of them were moving fast across the field, faster and faster. His heart was racing, and he began feeling unsure to be afraid to loosen his grip on the reins, or to be afraid that he would fall off. Or of neither.

He noticed that his eyes weren't fully opened, and when he did open them, he chanced a look around the field, and what he saw was magnificent. The sounds of Tinkerbell's hooves against the snow covered grass, and the sounds of the wind whipping in his ears faded out and James could hear nothing. Peaceful, quiet, beautiful. He felt lighter now. He straightened himself in the saddle, and relaxed. But he had to concentrate. He had to pass Emma. He looked ahead to see her a few meters away, and cracked the reins lightly, feeling the horse accelerate again. He was catching up.

Emma glanced over her shoulder, noticing this as well, and cracked her own horse's reins to speed up. James smiled. How exciting this was! And the cold - oh, there was no cold at all. James's skin tingled with warmth, the icy wind that was slashing his face and tangling his hair only cooling down his body. Tinkerbell was going faster than ever now, and the playwright realized that he and the old woman were neck in neck (or their horses, rather). He had a flash of a thought then: "A horse on a horse." That made him laugh loudly, even over the sound of the eight hooves on snowy ground. Emma heard this, and glanced over at him.

"What's so funny, Mr. Barrie?" she shouted.

"I'm winning!" James shouted back excitedly, laughing again, and pulling ahead of Mrs. du Maurier.

OoOoO

Peter sighed at the sight, and closed James's door quietly. His Uncle Jim had fallen fast asleep on his bed, his arm limply resting around the enormous Porthos, whom, next to James, looked like a giant. The boy looked at the clock in the hallway, seeing that it was only noon. Of course people needed their sleep, and he respected that, but he'd been wanting to spend time with his Uncle Jim as of late, and today seemed like the perfect day for it. But of course, there was the man sleeping in his bed.

The other boys were outside playing in the snow, but Peter didn't intend on doing anything of that sort. He, though having calmed down since George stood up for him that day a week ago, still tried to stay out of trouble. It was difficult to have fun when so many people in that time were having so many problems in their lives, and his mother and father both being away from him. There was so much on his mind for him to mentally grieve about, that he didn't have space in in his head for thinking about anything fun. He put his journal under his arm and began to walk downstairs, deciding to go out back to the frozen pond to sit on the bench there and write."Peter, darling, there you are. Why aren't you outside with your brothers?" Emma du Maurier intercepted him at the stairs, and Peter just blinked at her as though the answer was the most obvious in the world. Emma stared at him for a while, remembering one serious conversation the previous Wednesday she had had with James in hushed tones regarding Peter, after the boys had gone to bed.

"Well, come on then, would you like to do something with Grandmother? We could find something to do inside." Peter didn't like this style of speech she was using with him. He knew talking in the first person meant baby-talk. He was most certainly not a child, and much less a baby.

"No, thank you, Grandmother," he muttered to the carpet. "I was going to go outside to the pond and write." Mrs. du Maurier was unusually patient.

"Alright then, dear. If you change your mind, you'll know where I'll be." She placed a comforting hand on his chocolate haired head, and began to walk away, not forgetting to throw in a warning to "dress warmly" over her shoulder.

OoOoO

**Winter (soon to be Spring, hopefully) 1904**

_I had a day off from school today. Uncle Jim and Grandmother went out this morning. I still don't know where they went, and I'm awfully curious to know where they could have gone to bond so much so that she's allowing him to sleep away the good hours of the day. He may wake later so that we could do something together, but it seems like a waste of a day when we (my brothers and I) could be doing something together. Preferably, though, just he and I doing something, but I didn't want to sound selfish._

_Grandmother still acts towards me as though I am a child. I am not a child anymore. Children live bewildered by the world, and have not seen such tragedies as death and dying. And children, even if they have, do not comprehend the meaning. I do, for I am not a child. That is all I have to say on that subject._

_Christmas is coming in a few days. I'm excited, yet a bit worried. I'll have to write or draw something for everyone else, unless Uncle Jim takes each one of us out shopping individually one day. I do not know what to get Grandmother. I suppose she may be satisfied if she was given a day to be spent in her own company. I do wish_

"Hello, Peter." Peter looked up from his journal abruptly, to see James, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, coming toward him around the edge of the pond. Obviously he had already awoken from his nap.

"Hello," Peter responded quietly, closing his book around the pen that he had held in his hand. "I hadn't discovered this pond until just yesterday." James nodded. "It seemed to be a good place to get away."

"Aye," he said, and took a look around. When he was at a loss for words, though still having enough time to recover the conversation so it would not end without having to be continued awkwardly moments later, he said simply, "It's a bit veiled by the snow, isn't it?"

"It is," Peter said absently, pulling his thumb nail down the ends of the pages of his book just under the binding. It made a quiet scratching noise.

"I suppose...it's iced over." James stood. "I believe it's cold enough for it to be completely frozen over without brittle areas in the covering. It's not too large, anyway, so it would be easier to freeze...

"Let's see then, shall we?" Peter smiled, watching the man do his work as though it was the most dutiful task in the world. James stepped over to the edge of the pond, bent over, and brushed the snow off of the ice with his glove. He smiled triumphantly, seeing his reflection in the perfectly clear, frozen over water. He straightened himself, and turned to look at Peter. "Eh?" he said simply. Peter giggled a few times, then stood up when his guardian held his arm out toward him. The boy walked over to him, and closed his fingers around James's gloved hand. And the two stepped onto the ice. Carefully, slowly, aware of what could happen to them if they had approached to aggressively.

"Careful," James reminded, and Peter didn't mind, as he would have if his grandmother had said it. His smile lingered on his face, and they began to walk, then to glide. Soon they were effortlessly slipping about the ice, laughing and tripping and falling, and having _fun_. And for a moment Peter forgot the "important things." He didn't mean to, but he did nonetheless. Because however important those things were, this was important, this was now, this was here, and this was_ him_.

**December 1904**

_Life is like a pond. When it's warm out, you take a swim. And when it's cold, you walk on the ice._

OoOoO

James settled down to read again. He considered reading six entries tonight so he could catch up easier, but resigned himself to just two, and tucked himself into bed, drawing an oil lamp closer to the edge of the bedside table in order to see better. When the house was completely quiet, he opened the book, listening to the familiar cracking of the spine, and continued where he left off.

**October 8, 1872**

_Gerald got the lead in the school play today. I am very envious of him. Auditions were last week, before my birthday, and today I found that I was cast as the hideous old house maid! There it was, right underneath the big important: _Gerald du Maurier Gidgeon Hsvedel _my name was written less carefully: _Sylvia Jocelyn du Maurier Mrs. Hart_. I'm nearly far too sick to write about this anymore._

_Mother and I are going to the Balsons's picnic tomorrow. There's this boy that's a cousin of theirs, Arthur Luwellin Davies, who's always chasing me around anytime we go to anything for the Balsons. Once at a party, I was going to take a swim in the creek, and I turned around and saw him watching me undress! He got a good smacking for that one. My mother still thinks he's a pig. Gerald jokes that we'll get married someday. I find that highly unlikely._

_Mother's calling me down to supper. I'll tell you all about the picnic tomorrow._

**October 10, 1872**

_I apologize for not writing yesterday. The Balsons visited after the picnic and stayed 'til late. Mr. and Mrs. Balson's 14 year old daughter, Martha, didn't speak to me once. She sat across the room from me with her arms crossed the entire time, sitting up completely straight in her yellow puffy-sleeved dress with the darts on the chest to accommodate her unusually large breasts. She's very disturbing, that Martha._

_I didn't see Arthur once at the picnic. I found myself actually being disappointed. I asked Mrs. Llewelyn-Davies where he was once I had searched the entire lawn for him, and she told me that he was home with a horrible fever. I may go and visit him tomorrow. I don't know why I would, except I feel bad for him. He'll have wanted to see me anyway. Other than that, I watched Martha Balson eat a salad during the picnic. She eats like a bird! Honestly, who takes such little bites? I went right ahead and dug into my turkey sandwich. I didn't care if I had anything on my nose._

_Today was uneventful for the most part. Gerald shot a squirrel with his slingshot and showed it to Mother, who nearly toppled over on her friend, Mrs. Harvey. I told him he was a dirty rotten creature and if I could, I would shoot _him_ with a slingshot._

_I think I'll go to sleep now. I'm awfully tired. I'll write tomorrow, I promise._

A/N: So I fall asleep in my mom's bed after watching Big Daddy with her one night, and my dad comes home from work and up to bed at 3:30 AM and kicks me out, and into my own room. I laid there for a while, then read some articles in PC Magazine, and by that time it was 5 AM, and I had an extreme urge to write, so I went downstairs to my computer in the living room to do so. This is how weird I am. Though I _did _find someone else on my MSN messenger buddylist to talk to surprisingly! And even more surprisingly, it was 5:42 where ever she was too!

Another note: James's ditty about life being like a pond came from my brain. I felt I needed to mention that because I use a lot of his quotes in here, but that wasn't one of them.

_Review replies are below as always - give me some more to reply to!_

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 8:  
(and 1 and 2)

**oi-oi-oi: **"Toe-curlingly good!" I've never heard _that _one before! I'm so glad you've stayed with me on this since the very first chapter! I really do appreciate things like that! Thank you as always for reading and reviewing, it makes me so happy to learn that I've kept my readers and they have nothing but good things to say about me and my story in their reviews! There's lots more coming, so keep a look out! I was so happy to see your review and that you had gotten some time to read the ones you missed:-)

**KatrinaKaiba: **You take JM away, you DIE, woman! You know how I feel about that! (crushed) Thanks for readin az alwayz.

**Strange-Torpedo: **Yup, Peter _did _have those problems as a child. When I found that fact, I thought it would be a good add-in subplot to my story. Writing Sylvia as an eight year old has been interesting. After reading things over, there are very short sentences, but if I read them to myself in the way Sylvia (as an eight year old, that is) would read it to someone, then it sounds right. I wanted things in her diary that James didn't know about; just little details that he'd be interested in, and be shocked to find out. I wasn't sure about putting in her discovery of death early on in James's reading of the diary, but I decided that I should...although it sort of made that chapter even sadder than it already was, resulting in a complete Drama theme, save for the little James/Charles Frohman (no, I do not mean slash) ditty in there about him not being able to read. Gosh, I looked back and saw you at first read all 7 of my chapters - and then kept up and read chapter 8 as well! I applaud you! haha. Thank you so much, I hope you enjoyed Chapter 9 - there's more to come ;-)

**H.M. Chandler: **I'll be keepin' up the keepin' up! hah..thanks again for the review! And the diary idea...wrote it on a whim...usually things like that come to me long before I actually get a chance to write them. ...Like the horse idea! I was so glad to finally write this chapter! I hope you enjoyed it!

**Ari: **I'm confused about your confusion. Read over your review and rephrase it for me cuz I got really confused. hahaha. Anywho, I'm glad u like muh story :-) luv ya az always.

**froggerwisegurl: **_(for chapter 1) _I hope I can see you on Mugglenet again so that I can get you to read Chapters 2-8! I'm really really glad you liked Chapter 1, though!

**Danielle: **_(for chapter 1) _I'm assuming this is that one person from Mugglenet as well...and I know that you probably won't get to read this but I want to thank you anyway haha.

**ForeverInUrArms: **_(for chapters 1 and 2) _Hahaha thank you, I hope you finish it! I'm glad you're likin so far:-)


	10. An Open Casting Call

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 10  
An Open Casting Call

Notes/Thoughts: I was on the IMDb message board for Neverland the other day and someone was expressing their point of view on Mary being the "Tinkerbell" of the movie, and I thought, "Hey! She's completely right!" With Mary being jealous of James's friendship with Sylvia, like Tink being jealous of Peter's with Wendy. I thought that was a very good observation. Another thing someone said was: "I don't know if there is any basis for assuming that Barrie's wife was jealous in real life, in which case it wouldn't be the basis for Tinkerbell." I don't have an account on IMDb, otherwise I'd post this, but, she wasn't jealous in real life. She and James sometimes did do things together with the Davies family, so it _wouldn't _be the basis for Tinkerbell. But for in the movie, I thought that was very interesting!

**BARRIEFACT: **"Peter Pan creator J. M. Barrie and I William Nicholson always took our hasty meals in a public house opposite the Duke of York's Theatre while the rehearsals for Peter Pan were being held there. I noticed that he always ordered Brussels sprouts and never ate them. One day I asked him why. JMB replied, 'I cannot resist ordering them. The words are so lovely to say.' Try them yourself with a slightly Scottish accent."

Inside: An excerpt, An entry, A story

OoOoO

An excerpt from one of James's journal entries for this day: _"Emma du Maurier hasn't encouraged herself at all to change her ways, from what I have seen at least, and has persisted in making sure the boys haven't had one corner of their shirt untucked, or one hair out of place, or poking through the flat oiled surface she created every morning before they walked off to school. Of course, they'd come home and each one of them would look completely different than they had when they left, and just as sloppy as they had looked when they had woken up that morning."_

OoOoO

"No script yet?"

"No script _yet._ I've told you, Charles. I've only just finished the play. I still have to take it to the printer's and check over the first copy they give me and then they have to make enough copies for our cast, and that'll take a while. That's one of the reasons I was a bit hesitant to accept your idea to have the casting call so soon."

"Trust me, James. You'll thank me afterwards." Charles looked up and down the sidewalk near the theater, and then at the posters on the display board out front. "I'm going to go inside. Give it a few more minutes. There are already people in there waiting to read." The producer gave his friend a clap on the shoulder and disappeared into the theater. And James gave it a few minutes. He nodded with a smile as people passed, and let a few more inside before shutting the doors and meeting Charles down at the front of the house. Frohman, who was holding the sign-in list, tapped James before he got up on stage to give instructions and to make an announcement.

"James...James, come here for a minute please." And he did. "Look there." Charles pointed to a name on the list, which gave the playwright goosebumps all up his arms.

"Look at that. First name on the list. Mary Ansell Barrie Cannan. She kept your name as well as adding his." The two looked up at the stage to find her, and spotted her holding a small mirror and fixing her hair. She then proceeded to look through a book she had brought to read from. James's mouth was too dry for him to utter a word. "The show must go on," he muttered icily, and stepped up onstage in front of a massive crescent moon of people in chairs. He couldn't keep his eyes from angrily searching out Mary every few words. He cleared his throat.

"Good morning, everyone. I am James Barrie, as you all probably know." He glanced at his ex-wife. "You are here to read for the various parts in my latest play, _The Man With Music On His Face_.

"The idea came to me one morning when I woke up, discovering that I had fallen asleep on my journal, which I had recently written in, and upon looking in the mirror, found that the words of this very play had been scrawled onto my face." Scattered laughs throughout the group. "It was only then that I knew what I should name this play I had started that night I had fallen asleep on the wet pages, when I was in the park and met a woman who approached me to say: "My, my. I do say I've never met a man with _words _on his face before!" " More laughs. "I do apologize for not having a script to pass around, and to have you read out of, but I have just completed the play, and my friend, colleague, and producer," He gestured, "Charles Frohman, decided that it should be now that we have our open casting call. I wasn't sure at all about this idea at first because I've gotten so used to working with the actors and actresses I usually work with, but now, seeing all these lovely women and handsome gentlemen and fresh young boys, I don't think this will be all bad. So, we'll start from the top of the sign-in list, and you'll bring up what you have brought to read, and the two of us will make notes and decide later who will act as each part. The results will be posted outside of the theater, and you will as well receive a letter in the post regarding if you have obtained a role or not. If you have, a rehearsal schedule will be enclosed. Thank you very much. We'll start with Mrs. Cannan." He said the words sourly as though they were foreign in his mouth. He had met the writer Gilbert Cannan before, but the idea of putting a "Mrs." in front of his surname, especially when it referred to his ex-wife who had had an affair with him and left him, gave him chills. He stepped calmly down from the stage, and took his seat next to Charles, who had already sat down, had the sign-in list in his lap, and his hands folded across his stomach. James crossed his arms and his ankles, and raised his eyebrows, awaiting Mary's audition. She stood, sure not to trip over the large frilly dress she was wearing, and walked to the front of the stage. She gave James a look, then Charles, and opened to read.

"But not, my memory of you, should ever be subtracted by the taunting tide of the largest ocean, or the winds from the strongest storm. We shall always be one, the two of us, as though we have ne'er parted through the sad and disappointing part of life that exists as, and bears the name of _death_. But fear not, my soldier, we shall meet again in the land of the immortal, drinking from the cup of freedom, of newness, of freshness, and living together forever without the hatred and evil of the world you have left behind this night, and I shall join you in your opposite world when the first sun of the first month of the new year rises, and the first crow of the cock makes its rounds around trees and mountains and through green fields and wildflowers. Await my return, knight. Await my death, soldier." Everyone on stage applauded enthusiastically at the end of the former actress's reading, telling the person next to them that she would be given the part of Harriet Laudsel; and it was only James and Charles who kept their faces set and indifferent, and began to murmur to each other after the applauding ceased.

"What did you think, James?"

"Of course I thought well of it, she's had experience. I say we give someone else a chance, nevertheless. We shall see how that woman up there in the plum colored dress reads - "

"If this is because of the end of your marriage with her, James, I won't have it. She read flawlessly through that work without a pause, keeping her energy going throughout the reading. If you didn't know her at all, and she had just auditioned now, you'd be on your feet applauding and already making a note of whom you want to cast as one of your lead roles." James stared at Charles for a moment.

"Cast her as Harriet in your notes," he said simply. "Call her down please." Charles turned to the still standing Mary, and motioned with his finger for her to come down off the stage. "Miss," he said, as though she were a complete stranger. Mary closed her book and made her way down the stairs, lifting her dress as she did, and joined the two down in front, as James stood up and began to walk to the back of the theater. Mary followed him.

"Miss Tissel, please come forth," Charles said, keeping the hour going. Once the two reached the back, James turned to face her, a half expecting look on his face.

"Why are you here?" He asked.

"I came to audition for your play," Mary said defiantly.

"I thought you had retired from the stage."

"I have. But I had to see you again."

"If you want to see me all the time, Mary, then why did you leave?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Ah, yes, I _am_ terribly frightening, aren't I? A five foot tall man that plays with children...?" Mary shook her head.

"A child, yourself. That's what you are."

"And a child I shall remain," James responded, raising his chin a bit. Mary sighed.

"Why are you acting like this, James? I saw you at _Peter Pan_, and you were forgiving of me. I thought we were past this."

"I'm acting like this because I've had time to think. I don't need you anymore, because you've shown that you don't need me. You've got Mr. Cannan now - and there's another thing - why is my name still attached to yours?"

"It's not. I just felt I needed to remind you."

"How could I forget?" James said, though the tone of his voice didn't show any trace of happiness.

"It's time to grow up, James. Go home to your precious Sylvia," Mary said darkly. The playwright paused then, just nodding at her.

"Bit hard, it would be," he said in almost a whisper, "Considering she's been gone for almost a year now." At this, Mary backed off a little. Her eyes avoided his, and she spoke, barely heard.

"I'm so sorry..."

"It comes as a bit of a surprise to me that you of all people hadn't heard about that." He took a deep breath, and looked up at a small light in the ceiling. "Maybe a bit too busy with Mr. Cannan to pay any mind to the papers?"

"I've missed you, James," Mary said cuttingly. "There's no doubting that."

"Good. Well, that's some comfort, actually. 'Means I know you just a little after all." There was nothing left to be said after that. He simply turned on his heel and began back down the aisle to Frohman, feverishly making notes on a beautiful young woman also auditioning for Harriet. Mary watched him go, then went down to aisle to one of the seats, gathered up her things, and walked out of the theater.

"How'd that go?" Charles said out of the side of his mouth sarcastically, not pausing from his notes.

"I'd rather not talk about it," James said, watching the woman in the plum colored dress read. They both listened for a while, then James looked at his producer. "You like _her_, don't you? If you're still considering casting my ex-wife..."

"I like her, James, can you tell? But Mary, she's a natural. You can't argue with me about that." James sighed.

"We'll see," he said.

You can usually tell in auditions, whom you want to cast for a part, at the first glance at their person and the first few words they speak. It was like that with the man auditioning for Zinschiel, and the boy, for Jacob. James wrote everything in his notebook, having already cast two actors (not including Mary - she was Charles's choice. James still wasn't sure about her).

He walked blindly in the direction of Mrs du Maurier's house, thinking the entire time, trying to get his mind off of Mary and the play, and just enjoy the unusually quiet streets. He was tired from the Casting Call, and he was tired from getting his mind to stop reeling in all directions.

James was halfway down the street that Emma's house was on after a while, and it was only then that he was awoken from his trance. He paused in his steps, the foot of his cane being shoved into a hole in the road, and raised his eyes to the other side of the street. There was Mrs. duMaurier. She wasn't alone though, but accompanied by James's gigantic Newfoundland. He raised his eyebrows at the sight, clearly amused, but at the same time almost unable to process what was going on before him. He wasn't sure if he should call out to her and embarrass her, or let her go and think she'd gotten away with something stupid, and was _thoroughly_ impressed when she reached her hand down to pat Porthos on the head and give him a scratch behind his left ear. He stepped sideways behind a small spruce, which barely reached over his head, so he was sure he wouldn't be spotted. Emma, who had recently begun talking to the dog, made her way across the street, opened the gates to the drive, and started walking up to the doorstep.

OoOoO

"Now. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen - and those who do not apply..." Many giggles, "we will be testing our strength by taking on the challenge of wrestling a great demon. A horrifying, humungous, incredibly fearful animal that will rip your 'eads off the moment he sees your face daring to point his way. Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you, the _Newfoundland Landseer_. Jack! Let in the beast." James sat on the toilet seat, readying himself for the evil Porthos's entrance. Jack, holding back a storm of giggles, reached for the doorknob, and ceased the dog's scratching against the door, as he bounded in, headed straight for James.

"Close the door, George!" Michael yelled.

"Catch him, Uncle Jim!" Jack yelled.

"No, let him get into the tub!" Peter shouted over Jack. James moved out of the way just in time, to let the canine crash into the bathtub. Soapy water erupted all over the bathroom, causing everyone to shriek and jump in alarm. James had gotten the full blow of it, and had his face soaked already. He gave a mischievous grin, and wiped himself off with the arm of his white dress shirt. "Alright," he said loudly, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. Porthos had begun to whine, and was now trying to escape from his watery chamber.

"Don't let him get loose!" Jack warned through an insane giggle fit. James pushed his dog back into the bathtub and gave him an affectionate pat on the neck as though he were reminding him that they were still friends.

"This brute isn't going to give up without a fight, do ye' all agree?" The boys answered with laughter, the entire party failing to notice the puddles not-so-humorously decorating the floor. The playwright seized a bottle of shampoo, and dumped some on the dog's head. He began scrubbing him, and the soap turned foamy, making Porthos's fur stand in all different ways.

"I want to try!" Michael cried, and hurried to kneel down next to James. He giggled, then arranged the Newfoundland's fur in a way so that a point stuck up from his head toward the ceiling. The room once again erupted with laughter, Peter even letting himself loose and chortling shamelessly. Soon the rest of the boys joined in on the fun, more soap being scrubbed in, more strange designs being added to the bewildered animal's coat. Jack drew a spiral through the bubbles covering him, and upon lifting his arm up again, tapped James's nose with his pointer finger. The boy gasped, and turned around.

"You don't think you'll be getting away with _that, _do you?" his Uncle Jim said. Jack screamed, grabbing onto Peter's rumpled and damp shirt. James reached forward for the suds in the bathtub, and Jack gave another shout of false fright.

"James!" Came a voice from the recently opened door. Porthos barked at who was there, right into the playwright's ear. He slipped forward off of the toilet seat in surprise, landing himself right in the tub next to Porthos, sure to flip to his back before he fell.

"_James!_" Came Emma's voice once more, as she hurried into the room. The entire group went silent, as they stared at James's puzzled face. He sat up, and all four boys seemed to blink at once. He looked around at all of them, and began to laugh. Mrs. duMaurier was relieved that he hadn't broken anything, but frowned at the same time. "What are you doing? Get out of there," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. James reached to pet Porthos, who bent his head and licked his face, the soapy spike on his head flopping to the side. This made everyone giggle again, and James leaned over and gave the wet thing a hug.

"Mr. Barrie!"

"Yes, yes, I know," James said begrudgingly as he stood up in the bathtub and stepped out after Emma had laid down a towel. He winked at the boys, almost sadly, knowing full well that if they were home, all five of them would have somehow found a way to all get in the bathtub together to wash the dog.

"I'll let you finish this up in here, Mr. Barrie. Boys, I'll be in in a moment to tuck you into bed." The four of them whined in protest, but shuffled out of the room anyway. Emma had one last look around the bathroom, watched James scratch his head, pet his dog, and look back at her again, and gave a dignified sniff.

"I trust you'll be cleaning up after yourself."

"Of course."

"Goodnight, James."

"Goodnight."

OoOoO

"Uncle Jim, will you tell us a story tonight?"

"A story, Michael?"

"Yes, _please!" _Michael said excitedly.

"Don't tell us that one you mentioned the other night," George said.

"Which one? About the prostitute?"

"Yes, Jack nearly exploded at just the summary." Jack crossed his arms, giving the oldest brother a dirty look, while the rest of the boys laughed into their pillows.

"I did _not _nearly _explode_." Jack said indignantly. James smiled, and sat down on Peter's bed against the headboard, lifting his feet up onto the bed and crossing his ankles.

"Well let's see." He thought for a moment, smiled, then got up and closed the bedroom door. "Why don't we play a game instead. Shall we?" The boys were too excited. They sat up in bed eagerly, waiting for James to give them their roles.

"Jack, you'll be the king, ("Decided that one quickly," Peter whispered to Michael) Peter will be...Peter will be the wise old man. George, you be the shoemaker, and Michael can be the shoemaker's wife."

"Why do I always have to be the woman?" Michael said angrily. James only smiled. "Don't make me be the tickle monster, Michael," he said. Michael giggled, pulling his pillow up from the bed and over his face, and peeked out at James over it, who was still smiling at him.

"In that case, I'll be Mr. Whittaker."

"What does he do?" Jack asked blankly.

"I don't know yet," James said. "But let's get on with it before Captain Hook comes in."

OoOoO

**October 11, 1872**

_Nothing to report, really. Gerald's been running around the house practicing his lines for the school play. He comes around to my room, telling me to say my line, and right after he says: "Bring me my chequebook, Sally," I say, "Surely, Mr. Hsvedel. It'll only take a moment, as it is just on your desk." And then he laughs and skips out. Mark my words, one day you'll see me carrying his detached head in my basket._

_Father is home today after a holiday, painting. He came home with his head high, beaming, and showing off the thirteen paintings he had brought home. It was difficult, he said, for the coachman to keep himself from throwing himself into the street. The paintings were crammed in there with Father (none of them were smudged, luckily) and one nearly fell out on the journey. The two of them came in the door (Father and the coachman) and the coachmen said something awful to Mother, but Father didn't hear it, and kept his pride to lay them all in the parlor for us to marvel at._

_The rest of the day, I spent in my room reading, and thinking about a few things: Does Heaven have an address? I want to send Herbert a letter in the post. If he's sleeping, I should like him to wake up to a message from me, telling him I'm well and hoping he is too. If there isn't an address, I shall be very sad. But, life goes on, as Mother says. I hope to see him again someday, so he's not lonely..._

OoOoO

_With this being Chapter 10, I want to give some praise to, and thank the people who have stayed with me since I first posted Chapter 1 on February 23, 2005. I was a bit late in seeing the movie, when I found out it had come out in November of 2004! My mom and I had been wanting to go see if for a long time, but had been lacking the time. So now without further ado, I shall present these people as very dedicated writers and readers, who have become my friends through this story. Their names are below:_

_1. KatrinaKaiba_

_2. Liz (she's from school)_

_3. oi-oi-oi_

_4. H.M. Chandler_

_Thank you all so much! You don't know how much this means to me. For this, I give you my best regards._

OoOoO

Notes/Thoughts: I needed a bit of information about Charles Frohman (if he ever married or not) and ended up reading this biography about him online, which was very, very good. I might actually have a better idea of how to write him now from this bio. If you would like to read it, it's here: h t t p / r m s l u s i t a n i a . i n f o / p a g e s / s a l o o n c l a s s / f r o h m a n c h a r l e s . h t m l (copy and paste into your browser and delete the spaces to view) Also, my birthday is October 11. I wanted to have something exciting happen in Sylvia's diary, but it ended up t be a boring day. That's okay...

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 9:  
(and 8)

**Amy: **The ice thing came to me real late, and it came to me...god, when did it come to me? Er...well anyway, I wasn't sure which chapter to put it in, but I was almost wanted it to be James and all of the boys on their day off...but I made him out there with Peter and it just seemed like a better idea than having the boys run out of the house and join. The squirrel - I was thinking about your reaction when I wrote that XD! I'm so cruel. But it did sound like a boy thing and that's the real reason I put it in there. I do have a note about your last comment - and it's this: at the end, there may not be an auction - or there may be one. You'll just have to see, and I'll just have to see how the story goes to decide if I want to change the ending I have picked out. It was originally something else, but I got a better idea. So anyway...keep on readin, I know you will! luv ya lotz!

**Lizella: **I was almost certain you had stopped reading! And I laughed - I looked back at one of your reviews and you had said: "Chapter 9? are you intending on killing me off? How can I ever wait that long, now that I know." And now I get this review from you for it! I'm so glad you've continued reading and have sent me a review again! Thank you so much for the comments about mine being the "best Finding Neverland fanfiction in here and out there" (though I'm still convinced KatrinaKaiba's _Neverland _is...but if you have any further comment regarding this, I would be interested to hear it) and the best part being that there's no Mary Sues - which was my MISSION when I came on here and looked down the page and saw: "Until (insert name here) came along!" "But then he met (insert name here)!" "Until the day he found (insert name here)!" So I wanted to free readers of that. And now I'm sure after reading this chapter, you're tired of reading your long review reply along with it. I have this Author's Ailment (that's what I call it anyway) where I have to say absolutely everything on my mind. So I'll end this with a simple: I hope I see your reviews more often! Keep reading, more is to come!

**KatrinaKaiba: **Hahaha! Maybe I was drunk, I don't recall. Maybe I'm having a blackout right now...LOL. Don't worry I'll try and have some more Emma/James competitions and some more James/Peter talks. Hold your horses. (oh, I'm funny) And Charles Frohman persists to be one of my favorite characters lol! Thanks as always for readin! _(and for the Author's Note:) _I'm trying! I was almost done with this chapter when you sent that review. And yes Amy's story is really good, but, like me, she doesn't realize how good it is. A story's different through the eyes of others...

**H.M. Chandler: **Yeah, my dates kinda got screwy too. Ah, well. The horses - well that was mostly put in the chapter right after 8 because 8 was COMPLETELY sad. And I felt that we needed some comic relief or whatever it was. Keep reading and I'll keep writing:-)

**Liz: **_(for chapter 8)_ Calm yourself! Thank you, but I'm sure you'll never write as well as me. LOL. I'm kidding. I don't even think I'm that good. I lubbles you too heh...thanky!

**oi-oi-oi: **Hun, you don't have to worry about your "absence." I've had a long one too from posting. So you must excuse MINE. Anywho, yes I did make up the pond quote...it just sorta popped in there and I decided to make it James's journal entry! And yes, I'll get more interaction with James and the boys. With Christmas coming and all that, they'll be in and out more often, don't worry. Thanks for another awesome review! I always enjoy yours!

**kris: **Thank you so much! I'm glad you read the entire thing, too! New reviewers recently have been reading only chapter 1 or chapters 1 and 2 and then just sort of abandoning it or saying that they'll read the rest and then not read the rest. It gets me mad. I hope you read this chapter and liked it and won't be one of those people who abandon me! Thanks for reading and sending the nice review!

**Claire: **Thank you for all the comments! I hope to see a review from you for this chapter and the ones to come! it makes me happy when I see that people like the things I write and that I'm not getting flamed! Keep readin...!


	11. Peter's Lucky Star

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 11  
Peter's Lucky Star

A/N: (_May 8, 2005 - MOTHER'S DAY) _I've gotten a recent obsession with Eve6, the band. It kind of worries me, though, because I'm listening to them all the time and not all the stuff that calms me down and stuff to write this, and gets me in a nice mood. I don't know when the last time was that I listened to the Neverland soundtrack. I haven't seen the movie in a long time, either, which is also horrible! I need badly to set up something with Courtney this coming weekend so we can watch it together!

_(May 15, 2005) _Have you ever seen _Anchorman_? Omg. What a WEIRD movie! It was hilarious, but it was WEIRD. My friend and I had a movie marathon last night and she rented the unrated version (facepalms). I'm not sure if I liked it or not. It was so weird. ...LOUD NOISES!

Just a few chapters to go; only a few more things left to happen. I've planned it to the end, so I know even the last word of the last chapter. Stay with me, there won't be too much more. On this chapter, though, I think it was a bit of a filler. Very fragmented and short. I needed it, though. I needed to set up the rest of the story, and that's what this chapter did. ...REVIEWS!

**BARRIEFACT: **"A wealthy American woman tried to get in touch with Peter Pan creator Sir James Barrie but he eluded her. In desperation she went to H. G. Wells and asked him for a letter of introduction. 'It would be more than my life is worth,' said Wells. 'But I'll tell you what. Go and sit on his doorstep and make a noise like a crying child. That will fetch him down.' The woman, it is reported, followed Wells's joking instructions, and the trick worked."

Inside: An excerpt from James's play, 3 stories, and 2 snippets of the day.

OoOoO

**_ZINSCHIEL:_** Beautiful, aren't they?

**_JACOB: _**Most beautiful. They're especially bright tonight. _(the pair are lying on the grass watching the stars) _Though I have been watching that one over there. _(he points) _It seems it can't make up its mind. It doesn't seem to want to shine.

_**ZINSCHIEL: **(becomes thoughtful) _It's very much like a human being, isn't it?

**_JACOB: _**How do you mean?

**_ZINSCHIEL: _**Many human beings cannot make up their minds. They go one place, and wish to be in another. They choose one pair of stockings, and wish they had bought the other. They do one thing and are never sure if they have done the right thing. The star doesn't know if it wants to shine or not. If it shines, it wishes it hadn't.

**_JACOB: _**But why wouldn't it want to shine? Wouldn't it be happy to see everyone marvel at it? To point and smile and laugh and make love under it?

**_ZINSCHIEL: _**It may be shy.

**_JACOB: _**Shy, Zinschiel?

**_ZINSCHIEL: _**Yes. Have you ever been shy, Jacob, to meet someone, or talk to someone?

**_JACOB: _**Many times, yes.

**_ZINSCHIEL: _**Then, you're like the stars, Jacob. Afraid to shine.

**_JACOB: _**But why, Zinschiel? Why would they be afraid to shine?

_**ZINSCHIEL: **(shakes his head, thoughtfully) _I don't know why, boy. That's just the way things are sometimes. That's just the way things are.

OoOoO

"Maybe it's broken, James...here, just let me - "

"No, no, Charles, I'm just broken," James said, frustrated, and not even sure of what was coming out of his mouth.

"Oh, you're broken? Well, I can't have a broken playwright, can I? Here." Charles handed James a rag that he had found in his desk. The one he used to clean up coffee spills on his paperwork and his prized work desk he had bought off in some faraway country no one had ever heard of. James began mopping up the ink that had exploded from his pen with it. Luckily for James, most of it had missed his clothing and leather bound notebook, and only a few tiny spots on his beige pants symbolized the tragedy. Unluckily for the producer, though, most of it had gotten on his office rug and desk.

"I'm sorry, Charles, it just..."

"Don't worry about it, James." He eyed his tainted desk obsessively, though trying hard not to look angry. James was one of his best friends. He couldn't get mad at a best friend; he was too much of a good person. "I've got some extra ink you can put in." He fished around in his desk drawer, and came up with a tiny black bottle. James let it sit there until they were finished talking, to be polite and give Charles all of his attention.

"Thank you."

"Well, anyway, back to business."

"Yes, business." James scooted his chair up closer to the desk and waited for Frohman to speak. Charles put his hands down on top of a pile of paper on his desk (which, luckily, hadn't been soiled by James's offensive pen explosion) and gazed down at his knuckles, letting his eyes concentrate on each miniscule crevice in his skin, that had been etched in by age. He thought a little while longer before picking up the conversation from where it had been left off. He let out a breath.

"How many more fairy costumes do we need?" James folded his hands and looked at his own fingers. "Six at least," he said.

"Six?"

"Sure."

"Do we have enough in the budget for six...?" Charles slid a pair of glasses onto his face and took a notebook out of his desk drawer.

"We should. I went to the bank the other day to add to it." James vaguely looked around the room. Charles Frohman's office was one of the most interesting places that he had visited repeatedly in his life. There were framed newspaper clippings and certificates and programs from the hundreds of plays he had produced in his lifetime nailed into the walls, and shelves pounded in in random places holding trophies and photographs and ribbons. Advertisements and play posters and letters were among the most special of things and were posted on the wall behind his desk. It was alright, now, to be staring around the room, because Charles had his eyebrows furrowed and was doing vigorous figuring on a scrap piece of paper. James cast his eyes upon a photograph of he and Charles at his cottage that sat on his desk in a polished frame. It made him think of a few things. For one, the metallic shine of the black wooden frame. Years ago, James had noticed that the same picture frame had sat in the corner powdered in dust. A cobweb had even crossed the dirtied glass. Since Peter Pan had hit theaters and had become the most popular play in London, and soon the country, Charles had treated James like one of his best friends. He'd throw his arm around him at certain moments when he was especially giddy and smile and twirl his cane in the air as though he was the luckiest man in the world. People would stare and smile and tip their hats at the pair of them.

Charles wasn't, in any manner, a mooch. He had respected his partner before Peter Pan of course, but after it, he had made a lot of money and had seen how James could _really _captivate an audience, and leave them absolutely breathless and have them positively on the edge of their seats during a performance. His respect had increased considerably, and his showoffiness as well. He was the kind of sarcastic, charming man that wanted everyone to look up to him, be jealous of him, and act as though he was a god. Producing James Barrie's most successful play was a way to get him that attention. Things had just changed. He still wasn't a mooch. But he was an attention-seeker. James noticed this, and for once in his life, he had felt very much taller.

He cleared his throat, and Charles glanced up briefly to acknowledge that he had heard. "I'm planning on going to the...my cottage for Christmas." This was the other thing he had remembered from the picture. Charles looked up again.

"Your cottage?"

"Yes. I mentioned it to Emma last night. She shrugged her shoulder when I suggested it." One thing Mary had told James in one of her many useless letters, was that he could have the cottage that they had bought together the summer after their marriage. One of the useless things that she put in her letters came after that when she said that Gilbert had bought her a new one closer to their home.

"So...is that a yes?" Charles was beginning to get worried. That would take away valuable rehearsal time. Even though they had until Spring.

"I believe so. Emma's been...different lately. I think she's beginning to respect me a bit more." He looked up on this, this statement matching his thoughts about Charles that he had developed moments before. Charles had a pained look on his face.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Just until after Christmas. We'll leave that afternoon and I'll be back for rehearsal the next day, I promise."

"Alright, James, I can't keep you from going anywhere with your family." The playwright smiled. Family. This was an interesting word. He'd had one as a child. A gigantic one. But he'd lost it, and now he saw that he'd gained one.

Apparently you see many new things in Charles Frohman's office.

OoOoO

Michael pressed his nose up against a store window, a smile poking into his cheeks, which had turned a soft pink color from the cold. He turned around soon after and looked up at James.

"I want to go in here, Uncle Jim," he said indignantly, like a man. It made James smile.

"No one else wants to go in here, Michael," Jack said impatiently, "Come on, let's _go._"

"Now, be good, Jack, or Santa Claus won't bring you anything for Christmas." Jack rolled his eyes. George nudged Jack as if to agree with his Uncle Jim and to tell him to get back in line before he was personally executed by him.

"We'll go in, Michael," James said. And that made it final. He too gave Jack a warning signal, in the form of a dangerous stare, and ushered all four boys into the small shop.

It smelled of rotten vegetables, mixed with a strong scent of lavender. Michael, Jack, and George didn't notice it, but James and Peter sure did. If they did notice it, they didn't show it at all. The five of them split up as soon as they passed through the door, and all began looking around at the various strange things around them. James couldn't figure out what type of store this was supposed to be, and looked at all the shelves at his eye level as he wove through the thousands of shelves and bookcases. _Oh! _James smiled to himself, and picked up a dark green covered book, _Little Mary._ He flipped through it, not enjoying it as much as he knew other people had. Of course that was because he knew everything about it; every nook and cranny, every detail, every twist, every turn. But it assured him that his play wasn't a complete failure. Because, there it was, in a store he'd never heard of, on a shelf many other people had looked by before. A warm feeling came over him as he set the book down and continued browsing the store.

A few minutes later, all four boys found their Uncle Jim at the front of the store. All but one had a bag of gifts clutched in his hands. Peter handed James his gift money back, and the playwright accepted it inquisitively. He pocketed it and the five walked home. Peter looked up at James after the other three boys ran ahead and confessed he wanted to go with him shopping alone tomorrow, without his brothers. James smiled, and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. He looked forward to this.

OoOoO

"Who's invited you to a Christmas party?"

"No, they've invited _us._"

"Us? All of us?"

"Yes, _all of us_, James."

"Oh. Yes, but _whom?_"

"A friend of mine." James scratched the backside of his neck. Mrs. duMaurier had so many friends. He'd lost track after she'd mentioned Sophie, Josephine, Maria...

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night? But what about the - we talked about - I wanted the boys to see it in the winter before the snow all melts - !"

"Yes, James, we'll go to the cottage! We'll go the night after tomorrow. Yes?"

"The twenty-second is today...twenty-third is tomorrow - that's Christmas Eve! And I told Charles that I'd be back during the afternoon of Christmas day!"

"Then change what you said, James!" Emma paused for a minute. "Unless we spend Christmas at your cottage and go back this Spring after the play." James considered this a moment.

"Alright."

OoOoO

"He's not?"

"Nope."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"No kiddin'?"

"Nope." Pause.

"Serious?"

"Michael, yes," Jack said, frustrated.

"But then who puts the presents under the tree?" Jack sat down on his feet instead of staying in his initial position on his knees. He leaned back against his bed. Michael sat on the floor in front of him indian-style, hanging on his every word.

"Uncle Jim," Jack said casually, confidently. He reached for a book.

"Uncle Jim can't - " Michael gasped suddenly. "Uncle Jim's Peter Pan!" Jack looked up from the book he'd started to read.

"He's not Peter Pan, Michael." But Michael certainly wasn't convinced and ignored this comment.

"He probably flies around the world on Christmas Eve! He's - well, that means he's Santa Claus too!" Jack blinked, thinking that his little brother might wet his pants soon out of excitement.

"What are you two jabbering about now?" George said, coming into the room and throwing his dirty clothes on Jack's bed.

"Michael still thinks Uncle Jim's Peter Pan."

"And Santa Claus," Michael added brightly. George sighed wearily.

"Let him think what he wants, Jack," he said, and got into bed. "Where's Peter?"

"Who knows?" Jack said, shrugging. "He's probably off with Uncle JIm somewhere." Michael's eyes lit up, and he ran to the window, hopping up onto the cushioned seat beneath it.

"What are you doing now?" Jack asked. He'd given up on reading by then, and thrown his book aside. He joined Michael at the window.

"Seeing if he's flying around," he answered seriously. Mrs. duMaurier came in the room and looked around at the scene.

"Come on, boys, get in bed. It's late."

"Where's Uncle Jim?" Michael said, getting down and going to his bed.

"I'm afraid he's out right now, Michael."

"And Peter?" Jack asked.

"He's out with James."

"See?" Michael practically screamed at Jack. George rolled his eyes, with an impatient "_Michael!_" and turned to his other side.

"Come on, boys, bedtime. Don't worry about James and Peter. They'll be back by morning, I hope."

OoOoO

James and Peter walked quietly down the dark London roads. Only a few lights flickered in the windows of the houses downtown, and as they walked, James watched a few snap off. It was almost completely quiet, and the wind blew the air around only a bit.

"I'm glad you decided to join me for my walk tonight," he said to Peter. Peter stayed silent for a little while, then spoke to his shoes.

"Do you do this often?" he said, and looked up at the sky.

"Yes. Usually when I have a particularly large load of things to think about."

"So...nearly every night?" James shrugged.

"Yes, I think I could say that." It was quiet between them a little longer. A bat flew onto a lamppost, scratching at the wood, and cleaning itself. "Your grandmother and I talked with each other today."

"Oh?"

"We're invited to a party tomorrow."

"For whom?"

"Some friend of hers. I'm not sure."

"Do we have to go?" Peter kicked a small rock along the cobblestone. James sighed, watching a lamplighter that they passed put out the tiny flames in the street lamps that lined the road. "Yes, Peter," he said. "because your grandmother says so. I wouldn't want you to come, but it's not my decision. I may be able to smuggle the four of you out early, though."

"That's more rude than not bothering to come at all. It's fine, Uncle Jim. If we have to go, we have to go." James was surprised at Peter's sudden flexibility.

"Of course."

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 10:

**XHeartofaDragonX: **Hah I thought about you writing in that little thing with Jack. I figured you'd laugh at it since...ya know. Anyway, I'm glad you've started reading/writing - it really means a lot to me. Even if you're not planning on becoming a writer, writing is always good for anybody. And I'm sure you don't want to read a lecture, so I'll end this by saying: XOX good luck with your story, mate! I'm rootin' for yeh!

**Kris: **I did respond to you on everything in here, since I've been chatting with you online. But just to state it again...I HATE ORLANDO BLOOM.

**KatrinaKaiba: **Aww you're so nice to me. The bath...yeah, that was part of a roleplay with me and Amy...and I thought it was so cute while we were doing it, so I made a note to include it in my story! (In the roleplay, though, he took off his shirt cuz it was wet and heavy (wink) ) I actually added the beginning part of the conversation between Mary and James when I actually got to that part - I wrote the end part from "Go home to your precious Sylvia, James" until he walked away, while I was in the middle of chapter 6 on vacation haha! I'm not sure if Mary will show up again, but I'm pretty sure I want her to...but the play, Man with Words On His Face, won't be in the story. I already know how I'm going to end the story, and for the sake of my losing the characters, I'm not having the performance of Man With Words On His Face included in it. My family just...I don't know. I don't think any of them know me as well as they think. It's okay, though...I've got my friends to understand me until they really get to know me. Thank you so much for all of this, Tara. You've been a great friend/faithful reviewer.

_(and you reviewed my Author's Note:) _Well, I love putting you in my stories! Yeah, I have devotion and hope that everyone still loves me and is going to continue reading even if it takes me a while to update lol. I'm glad to hear that you'll keep reading, that makes me really happy!

**Lizella: **Aww thanks. It's a good thing my James is lovable: I don't want any of you hating him or anything! Yeah, Mary...hah...she's somewhat fun to write. Of course "continue" is my favorite word, so I'll be following through with it. Thanks for readin again, mate! I enjoy your reviews!

**H.M. Chandler: **Well, you deserve to be on my list of dedicated readers. You truly are one! To address Charles's marriage issue, he kept a _very _personal personal life. He never married, though, but people think he was in love with an actress that worked at the theater and they were going to get married, until he died on the _Lusitania _during WWI. So that answers your other question too; no children. Updating soon is hard because of exams and stuff, but I'll be sure to be writing this all the time when summer rolls around or I get half days for exams and I'm bored after I get home at 11:30 and want to write! Keep readin and I'll be sure to keep writin!

**oi-oi-oi - **Hah yeah, you'll get another honorable mention at the end of this story too (wink) It pays off to continue reading someone's story all the way through since chapter 1! Your grandmother sounds really funny haha! Mrs. duMaurier, I think, I've gotten better at writing since chapter 1. That person who sent that long review that mostly consisted of how bad my Emma duMaurier was out of character (did you see that? I got so mad.) can BURN now. lol. Yeah, Mary'll show up a few more times in this. She's kinda fun to write. Thanks so much for reading again, you don't know how much I appreciate it!

**claire - **Have you read any of this before? So many reviews, and I just forget every individual person that reads/reviews haha. Thanks for planning on continuing reading, and I'm really really glad you like how I do my characters...sometimes I can't grasp a character, but now they've become like old friends and I can just latch on and ride with them. Thank you again!

**Moonjava - **Thanks a whole lot! I'm writin as fast as I can without making it horrible and loaded with errors lol.


	12. Mistletoe And Champagne

The Playwright: The Escapades of JM Barrie  
Chapter 12  
Mistletoe And Champagne

A/N: _(May 21) _Hahaha I had SO much fun with Charles Frohman in this chapter! XD ! He's such a nut, and from reading his biography, he really was that way. He was real sarcastic. I don't think he got very nervous if he was in danger because on the_ Lusitania _incident, he was making jokes even when he was floating in the water haha. The website said that he had a bad knee and couldn't swim, so he drowned. Sad. But I'm interested in this stuff, so I try not to let the sadness get to me lol.

Hah - in Science the other day, I was writing this chapter and...yup, you guessed it. Teacher yelled at me. Hahaha I take pride in getting in trouble for writing.

My mom is friends with this English teacher at the school she works at (Middle School...she teaches music) and she gave him Chapter 3 of this and he read and wrote some comments! I've deciphered his handwriting and this is what it said:

**A very enjoyable read!**

**o Good dialogue**

**o great control of tenses between the game sequence and the narration.**

**o you gave the reminiscence real melancholy.**

_(and he put stars in the writing to show if something didn't belong in the time period - after looking them over, I noticed it was all in the narration; words or phrases.) _**Adressing the reader ("you") is very tricky. Discovering the best relation between narrator, reader, and characters is one of the most difficult tasks of an author.**

**Keep Writing - I'd like to read more. **

Yay! I'll be printing up some more for him and I'll post his comments!

To make sure no one jumps to any conclusions, I will say it now: I do not ship Mary/James and I certainly do not ship Charles/James. You'll see why I say this as you read. And you'll want to; I think it's one of my favorite chapters!

**BARRIEFACT: **Among the distinguished pallbearers at Thomas Hardy's funeral were J. M. Barrie and George Bernard Shaw. Shaw, the tallest and most notable of the group, later remarked that, while he had looked impressive at the ceremony, someone else had outdone him: "Barrie - blast him! - looked far the most effective. He made himself look especially small."

OoOoO

_Friday_

Mrs. duMaurier was in a great rush to get out the door that evening. James and the boys were prodded along like sheep for about an hour, dumbly being dressed in suits and having their hair slicked back with a gallon of hair oil. Between Michael's crying and whining and Jack's rambunctiousness, (he had chased Peter around with a wet towel, attempting to snap it on his backside - until he nearly knocked over a vase containing Emma's Aunt Josephine) there was total confusion, until, twenty minutes before the party, they hopped onto a coach and were sent to Wincrest Avenue, on the other side of town.

A greeter at the door of Mrs. duMaurier's friend's towering mansion took their coats and attempted to make polite conversation for a while. The six of them broke free and were let loose in the massive entrance hall. People were scattered about, hundreds of people, unrecognizable, strange, high-society, primped up people. James felt underdressed even in his starched tuxedo, with not one single hair askew on his head.

James and the boys entered awkwardly, looking around like they were utterly scared of their new surroundings. Unlike the party of Davieses (with the exception of a Barrie), Emma knew everyone in the hall and had already found someone to talk to. She was making her way to another corner of the room to meet someone else.

Somewhere in those few seconds, the four boys had drifted away from James, and noticing this, he wandered to the buffet table. He planned to stand there the entire time and look like he was having a great time. He turned to the punch, and noticed, after drinking two glasses, that it contained alcohol. He put his glass down quickly and wiped his mouth off with a napkin. James never drank. Well, not _never. _Special events or dinners, he had a glass of wine, but never more than one. Without looking back at the table, he reached for a stuffed pastry and his hand found his mouth. The pastries seemed to be the only good thing about the party, and the family had only arrived a small while ago.

The chandelier above was gigantic. It was the only light in the room, though every corner of it was lit. Light reflected off of the tiny shards of glass hanging from it, sending majestic beams of light all around the massive collection of people. It hurt James's eyes to look up at.

"James!" came a voice from his side, breaking him out of his trance. James felt a hand slap his shoulder, and when he turned around, saw that it was Charles. Three little purple dots were on the producer's forehead. He blinked the stain from the blinding light away, and managed a half-hearted smile. He was relieved, really. At least he had someone to pal around with. "What a small world. What are you doing here?"

"I'm…I'm not sure, actually." Charles laughed, his own glass of punch squirming around in his hand. Between two other fingers of the same hand, he held what looked like an expensive cigar. The smoke that escaped constantly from it wound its way up to the painted ceiling, and circled high above their heads up into the chandelier.

"Charles, I need to ask you something." James lowered his voice suddenly.

"Sure." He leaned into his friend.

"Em...who exactly is hosting this party?" Charles looked around, a bit worried for the pair of them, and matched his voice to the playwright's own.

"I'm not sure. I was just about to ask you," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, through his mustache. James smiled. Just like Charles. "Emma drag you along?"

"Who else would have? Honestly, I wouldn't have come here on my own. I don't know a single solitary person here, do you?"

"Oh, a few people. Some actresses. I chatted with an old friend from New York for a little while. He's here to visit his wife...they live very separate lives." He moved his two index fingers back and forth to indicate that the couple was far apart. "I've been here for about a half hour. It seems like months, though."

"Who invited you?"

"Mr. Cannan."

"Mr. _Cannan_?" Gilbert Cannan?

"I heard the grandmother of the host...or host_ess _is making all of the desserts as we speak" that explained the pastry "and she's got a green thumb for baking. Or...a...iced thumb...? What would it be for desserts...?"

"Then I do know someone here." James began to glance around at the enormous party.

"You think so?" Charles looked around as well. "Ah. There." He pointed with the index finger of his right hand that wasn't intertwined in his punch glass and his cigar. James followed the ringed finger.

"What about Mary? Do you think she's here?"

"Well, it's a social event, it's like when the two of you were married: you'd never be seen at a social event without the other." James nodded. This had been very true. Charles sighed.

"I'll keep an eye out. I have to go talk to Oswald." He vaguely gestured to the left side of him. James nodded, gave a brief goodbye wave to his friend, and gave in to another glass of punch. He looked around again, paranoid about seeing Mary, and walked through the crowd trying to keep a low profile. A tall woman gasped and put a hand on his shoulder. He spun around in shock, nearly spilling punch down his front.

"James Barrie?"

"Yes…"

"Oh, it's so nice to see you again." James blinked.

"I'm sorry, I don't…"

"I'm a friend of your wife's. I was over for dinner one night."

"Oh, were you?" He squinted into the chandelier, trying to make eye contact with the woman. Her head wasn't doing a very good job at blocking the light.

"Yes – I'm Cecilia Jenkins."

"Oh, yes, I worked with your husband once; Carl?"

"He didn't mention that!"

"Well it was quite a few years ago. I'd imagine he'd forget..." James did a double-take past the woman, spotting Mary just a few feet away. She had met up with Gilbert, and was making her way back to the buffet table, where Charles had returned to and was now carefully tucking pastries into a napkin.

"Are you writing any plays currently?"

"Yes, I'm working on one, and we're doing _Peter Pan _at Easter at the _Duke of York's_...can you excuse me please? I'm sorry. It was nice meeting you again," he said quickly, shoved his punch into her hand, and walked fast to Charles.

"Charles," he whispered, and tapped his arm. The producer was startled, and dropped a few of his pastries. He bent to pick them up, but James grabbed onto his shoulder.

"No, _look_." He pointed forward, and Charles looked. They were edging closer.

"Make happy with them," he murmured, setting his napkin on the table behind him and shoving his cigar between his lips. "Hello, Mrs. Cannan," he greeted, his mustache and beard smiling almost insanely. "How are you?" Mary nodded.

"I've been fine, thank you, Mr. Frohman." She didn't look at James. Not even a glance. "Have you met Gilbert?"

"There's the old devil!" The playwright looked up at Charles, a look of disbelief on his face. He pumped Mary's husband's arm hard with both hands, and the man winced slightly, managing a smile. "It's such a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Likewise," Mr. Cannan said, pulling away carefully and holding his arm with his other hand. Charles's expression laughed at the poor fool, but he didn't seem to notice.

"James, you've met Gilbert." It was the first time Mary had looked at him.

"Yes, how do you do," James said dully, with a fake, strained smile. He turned promptly to pick up a pastry and a new pre-poured glass of punch from the table so that both hands were occupied and he had no chance of shaking with him. "Oh – sorry. I…" He indicated that he couldn't shake. Gilbert shook his head, forgiving him.

"Mary has told me that she auditioned for your play a few days ago, Mr. Barrie." James, whose eyes had wandered away, looked up at the mention of his name. He blinked. "Mr. Barrie…"

"Oh - yes. Yes, she auditioned very well. You should begin to watch your mail for news from the theater." Mary felt a bit embarrassed now, and kept her eyes away from her ex husband. A thought crept into her head, and she wondered if she were still married to James, would she still audition for one of his plays?

"Well, that's very good. I look forward to the performance." Gilbert smiled a real smile alongside James and Charles's artificial ones, and put an arm around Mary. James flinched.

"Ah, yes, and of course _Peter Pan _on Easter." The walking advertisement. James believed that his producer had done far more advertising than even he had himself.

"Yes, we'll be buying tickets, of course." Mary turned u the corners of her mouth during a short pause where Charles struggled for conversation. James made no effort.

"So, anything else new? River of money still flowing your way?" Gilbert still didn't get that the joke was on him, and laughed.

"Yes, and I'm sure it's branching off to your doorstep as well."

"As always." Charles lifted his punch glass to his lips.

"It'll keep flowing. And we'll need it soon; what with a baby on the way..." Charles's eyes grew as big as golf balls and he choked on his punch. James immediately began patting him on the back and making sure he was alright. Mary's face tinted red and she became flustered. "Will you excuse me?" She turned and left. Gilbert followed, clueless as to what was happening.

"Baby?" Charles coughed.

"I didn't know."

"Neither did I."

"Nor would I suspect." The crowd of people began to applaud the miniature orchestral ensemble in the corner of the room, and began to dance, as they started to play again. Charles set down his punch.

"Beautiful. Now we have to dance," he grumbled, and coughed one last time into his sleeve. He looked at James, who gave a sarcastic smile and held his hand out. "What? What are you doing?" The playwright laughed.

"May I have this dance?" Charles laughed back.

"You can have it, but I wouldn't recommend that you keep it very long." And so Charles set his cigar down and they danced and laughed all over the room. People stared, but knowing who it was, they didn't make themselves stick out. The song sped up and they danced faster, while the people on the floor seemed to make way for them, parting at just the right times.

"I'm starting to feel ridiculous, James." Charles laughed, though. He had just pictured the two of them. How must they _look? _James smiled. He knew that if he was witnessing this through an adult's eyes, he'd turn his back and pretend that he didn't see them. But they kept dancing, not caring at all. Things were good now. A new play, an old moneymaking friend for Charles on the way back to the the theater. They had a reason to let themselves go for a while, and it felt good. After a few minutes into the song, however, they had to stop. One person had decided not to make way for them.

"Hello, Emma." James cleared his throat and let go of Charles.

"A bit too much alcohol, Mr. Barrie?"

"Possibly." Charles's eyes had a funny gloss over them. He'd probably laughed himself to tears. Mrs. duMaurier raised her eyebrows.

"I have a reputation to maintain, James. And with the entire city knowing that I'm here with you, I would be proud if they didn't discover that you were," she looked from Charles to James in disgust. There was the old Emma. "_Homo-sex-sual._" Charles snorted, but this didn't go over well. Emma was not enthusiastic at all to remain, turned with a grimace, and left them alone.

"I'm afraid I'm far from that," James said to particularly no one, and scratched his head. Charles shook his.

"I'm afraid you're living with an old bat." A straight-backed man came around with champagne, and the both of them took a glass, after Charles had insisted that his friend take one. James sighed. "I won't argue. But I won't say I like it either." He took a sip. Much stronger than the champagne."James." James turned. _What does she want, exactly? _he thought. "Yes?" Mary looked at a half-drunk Charles, who had already downed half of his champagne in the last thirty seconds.

"Will you dance with me?" Charles looked at James with surprise.

"Of course." He handed his glass to the producer, took Mary's arm, and walked off into a group of people. They began to dance as the song slowed. Who should start the conversation?

"So, you're here with Charles."

"Emma seems to think the same thing." Mary frowned.

"That's not what I meant." James shrugged.

"I wouldn't think it of you either. What with a baby on the way." She bit her lip.

"James, I don't want it to be like this."

"So you're sorry you left."

"Why do you think I've written letters?"

"God knows why you've written letters! I hardly have time to give a thought to Gilbert visiting a doctor to investigate the bump on his finger or the mole on his back." He shivered.

"I never wrote a letter about that." She looked away. A long ten seconds passed.

"Happy Christmas," James mumbled.

"Happy Christmas," Mary said back.

"This is a Christmas party, isn't it?" She smiled. One thing she remembered before the tense times between them was his sense of humor.

"Yes."

"I'm actually not certain who it's for. Mrs. duMaurier dragged the boys and me along."

"I was invited by someone who was invited by the host. And would you like to know the truth?"

"Yes, I would."

"I don't know who it's for either."

OoOoO

Charles swaggered over to James an hour later, and placed his hand heavily on the playwright's shoulder. Peter looked at him blankly, and blinked. He was the only boy who had gotten back to James. The remaining three were still off mingling, as their grandmother urged them to.

"Good evening, Mr. Frohman," he said smoothly.

"Good evening, Pater...Peter - Paul?"

"Er...Peter, can you go find your brothers please? I'll look for your grandmother." Peter nodded, gave a brief smile at Charles, and disappeared into the crowd.

"How many?"

"Goodness, James, I don't even know anymore." He took another long swig of his champagne, but James snatched it out of his hand as soon as it had begun to lower from his mouth. He set it on a small table near the wall and led his friend back to the buffet table, careful that he didn't try to steal anyone else's drinks on the way.

"Don't move, Charles, I'll be back in a minute." Without waiting for a response, James skipped off to look for Emma duMaurier. He expected her to be in the middle of an enormous group of people, and that's exactly where he found her.

"Emma - "

"Are you Mr. Barrie?" A woman looked at James, her eyes sparkling.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Barrie." Emma lifted her head at the sound of that gentle Scottish accent of his. Apparently she'd missed that her name had been called.

"Oh, Emma's been telling us all about you!" James raised his eyebrows. No doubt she'd complained to her girlfriends about how horrible he was at home, and how badly he acted...

"Did she? Well, I'm glad I've entered another person's conversation this evening," he said stupidly, not knowing what else to say. The ladies all laughed nonetheless Emma glanced at the enormous decorated clock on the wall, then slipped away as unnoticed as a church mouse. James, seeing this, pulled the group of women in closer and whispered.

"What did she say about me?"

"She said...well, knowing Emma duMaurier, I shouldn't tell you this." James had felt for a fleeting second before, that the boys' grandmother had maybe said something good about him for once, but this comment by the lady in the pale pink ball gown somewhat crushed his hopes.

"It's alright, she won't know."

"Very well, then. She said you're possibly the most kind and most wonderful gentleman that she's ever met in her life."

OoOoO

James escorted the man with the perfectly groomed beard, the expensive suit, the engraved cane, the tall hat, and the confused brain out of the house.

"We never did find out who that party was for," he murmured to Charles once they had left the doorstep. He was glad that his friend could not take the crystal glasses from the home and somehow have gotten any more drunk, otherwise he might not have been able to comprehend anything James said. Or put each sound of the words in the correct order.

"Personally, I think it was that woman in the bright orange dress." James knit his eyebrows, trying to remember the guests.

"I don't think there was anyone in a bright orange dress, Charles." He looked at Charles, who had sort of a confused, sullen look on his face.

"I don't remember." James sighed. He'd have to ask Emma, who was a more reliable source at the moment, when they all got home.

"What's taking so long? I told them that I'd be outside." James and Charles stood beside the coach, waiting for the other five people in the party to exit the house. Charles swayed, even though his eyes had only turned a bit to look at James. James did a double-take at the man.

"Hang on a minute. Don't move." He ran back inside. Charles threw up his arms.

"Why does he keep thinking I'm going to run a lap around London while he's gone? I won't move, James," he said to particularly nobody. The cab driver looked at him as though he was insane, though. Charles gave him a hello, told him to continue to hold the cab, and climbed into the coach car. James found the five lingering near the buffet table. Emma was busy stuffing pastries into Michael's arms. The playwright walked over to them, gave them each a look, took his own pastry, and walked back outside. Mrs. duMaurier immediately changed character, sniffed dignifiedly, and smoothed out her dress.

"Come, children," she said, and led them down the steps.

OoOoO

"We're going to the cottage tomorrow?" Michael seemed to have enough excitement for two people.

"Yes, we are," James said, tucking in each of the boys one at a time. "We have to come back the afternoon of the next day. So be sure to bring your presents for everyone. We'll be chopping down a tree." He smiled at this. This was all going to be a lot of fun.

"Yes!" Jack said, bouncing on his bed.

"Is grandmother coming?" Peter said. James nodded. None of the boys looked too pleased about this statement, but were excited nonetheless. Of course, they loved going to the cottage.

"But now we have to go to bed so that we won't be tired when we leave tomorrow afternoon." James did his usual route around the children's beds, tucking them in, giving goodnight hugs and kisses, and wishing them sweet dreams. Finally, all four of them were dozing off, and James was closing the door to their room and making his way to his own. He changed, washed, and brushed his teeth, then got in bed. Just in time, Porthos ambled into the room and jumped in with him, ready to get to sleep himself and to be present for James's reading.

**October 12, 1872**

Mother and I went shopping today - just the two of us, without Gerald or Father. She bought me a new bonnet, and new socks with lace on them. She told me that I could wear them to church on Sunday. That's in three days.

I do not like that Abby Parker in school. Today during Math class, she pulled my ponytail, tugging the ribbon straight out of my hair. She told me it was an accident and that I shouldn't go around "with that thing sticking out of the back of my head." Then she told the teacher on me, lying to her that i spilled my ink bottle on her essay, and I had to stay after school to do lines. I'll get her for it, you'll see.

A/N: haha Tara, you walking advertisement. I still remember when you put that in a review oh so long ago. Was it a review? Or an IM? It was something. Anywho, I really didn't proofread this much, but I will be reading it anyway because it's hilarious, I think. So, if you saw any errors, tell me.

HAHA **OI-OI-OI** - THIS IS THE BEST! _James smiled, "Heads rolling is better than eyes rolling." _Great story, mate - better'n mine!

Frohman sighed, "What's that supposed to mean? My head can only take so much cryptic stuff, James." that's great! hahaha! you know how hard i laughed!

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 11:  
**  
Kris** - (for the review to my author's note) Sorry I didn't put this reply in chapter 11...I forgot about it haha. I don't remember if I've read anything you've written...but I'm sure it's not so horrible. Thanks for all the nice and happy comments (smiles) they make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

_(for chapter 11)_ Yeah...you'll probably see me in other stories, though...as soon as I get some ideas. When Harry Potter comes around, I'll be back in that category. Eew Orli and Leo. icky. Did you see the Aviator?  
**  
KatrinaKaiba** - Haha I write the best Charles Frohman in the seven seas! I love CF, he's great. Thanks very much for telling me my bad chapter was grand haha. And for reading/reviewng. hehe. Love ya for it! I look forward to more Opportune Moment - keep writing!

**Lizella** - More Charles comments! Yay! Hope you liked him in this chapter. (giggles) I'm sorry about the A/N but they keep readers, I think. And after I post them, I get more reviews for the chapter before it. lol. Keep readingg!

**H.M. Chandler** - Eew I had a Math State Test a few weeks ago and they gave us this retarded Social state test to TEST THE QUESTIONS. We didn't get graded, but it was still stupid. Dumb 8th grade testing. I'll read if you write - and read and send reviews. lol. Talk to you later!

**XHeartofaDragonX -** Charles Frohman. Is. Amazing. Hah! And now you'll have to beg me to post Chapter 13...and as long as I get REVIEWS..I can. So. Look out.


	13. Popcorn Ropes

The Playwright: The Escapades Of J.M. Barrie  
Chapter 13  
Popcorn Ropes

A/N: _(May 28 - 4:11 AM - can't sleep again) _I think chapter 12 is my new favorite chapter LOL. For some reason, I went a little wacky for a week or two. You should have seen me writing that chapter; I wrote it at school and uploaded it into my Doc. Manager so I could fetch it back when I got home - but the funny thing was, they were only tiny segments because I wrote at every free computer lab moment! Hope you enjoyed it all. I applied for this writer's workshop for this summer. I submitted Chapter 5, with it being one of the shorter chapters, and one of my more creative ideas. If I don't get submitted, I have no reason to live and might fall into the toilet and drown. I'll keep you posted.

_(May 30) _Yay! Fast update, huh? Short chapter too. Hope ya like it! And what's up with me JUST getting enough reviews! Send em in! I love hearing from all of you! And...I would have had this posted a little earlier, if the Login was actually working. Grr.

Check out the new website! t h e p l a y w r i g h t . w o r l d b r e a k . c o m

Inside: A story, and an entry

OoOoO

_Saturday_

Emma duMaurier woke the unsuspecting party of James and the four boys up at seven. She helped them all (even James) dress in their formal clothes, claiming that they could easily be on time for the 8:00 Christmas service at the Catholic church downtown.

A half an hour later she woke him up, she wandered into James's (more appropriately, since she had called the room her own first, Sylvia's) room and began to tie his tie, without his protest. He stood still patiently and willingly, his eyebrows set normally, and he watched her, without an amused or sarcastic expression on his face. He just stood.

She straightened his collar, smoothed out his shirt and suit jacket, buttoned the jacket's buttons, reached down to his head, fixed a stray bit of hair, and with what might have looked like a motherly smile, she exited the room. Nothing was said; Nothing needed to be said.

She found the boys in a state of confusion in their bedroom when she got there. Apparently Jack stole Michael's pair of black socks James had gotten him a while ago, and when Michael had asked for them back, Jack told him that they're just socks and to stop acting like a baby. Emma immediately stepped in, stole them back, scolding Jack and telling him all about his newly developed attitude in fast sentences. With James's help, she got them all squared away, and they got out of the house finally at 7:59. With Mrs. duMaurier being so paranoid about being late, she shouted at the cab driver to "make that thing go faster," and he in turn sped up the horse so it might have been going about fifty miles per hour.

Finally they walked into church, at 8:07, and sat in the back. Emma kept her head held high and her back straight in the pew, picked up a missalette, and began to follow along as though she had been there for the last seven wasted minutes. James scratched his head, utterly confused about the woman. Here she was in her "High Society" mode, and she had just tied his tie a few minutes prior. And, surprisingly, she didn't starch the suits of the four of them.

After the mass, they all trooped back home, changed into more comfortable clothes, and began to pack a few things in their suitcases. What with only going overnight, they only needed a pair of nightclothes, some undergarments, and some clothes for the next day. (and possibly work clothes for when they would chop down the tree)

It was 9:42 when the doorbell rang, and James hopped down the stairs to answer it.

"Charles!" Charles smiled wearily, and something occurred to James. He looked behind him to check for the presence of Madame duMaurier.

"You're sober, aren't you?" he said in a low voice.

"Yes, yes. Here, you annoying little midget." Charles smiled with James on this; this was a running joke between the two of them. He held out a package, wrapped in decorated paper, with a scrawly _James _on top. It was only appropriate: Charles had so many gifts to give out, he needed to keep track of which was which.

"Oh, Charles, I feel horrible - I didn't get you anything!" James took the present anyway, and just stared down at it sadly.

"Don't worry about it. What with you and the boys struggling through your first Christmas with Emma, I was almost positive you might forget."

"No, it's not like that at all. I just wasn't sure you'd get me something. Then you'd be the one embarrassed and I'd feel guilty of something." Charles blinked, his face turning confused, like he had eaten what he thought was a strawberry danish, and was sure that was what it had said on his order, but had turned out to be a raspberry one. He wasn't in the mood for James's philosophy.

"Just open it." The playwright pulled the ribbon and took the lid off (which Charles then held for him, saying he might want to have two hands free). His eyes filled with tears. "Well, don't cry! I didn't think you'd get all emotional like that! Take it out!" James separated gift from gift box, and held it in his arms protectively, as if it were a dying baby. "It took a very long time for me to get that, James," Charles said, as if talking to a child. "The artist was out of town for what seemed like years, and the printer got upset with me numerous times when I bothered him about space on the pages in which to place the drawings. I payed money for every protest of his." James ran a hand over the cover of it. It was, which you may have figured out, a book. But not just any book. It was _Peter Pan, _a special edition meant for no one but the author of it, bound and in hard cover, a picture of the boy who wouldn't grow up on the front, his fists on his hips, and that familiar cocky smile on his face. He opened it and began to flip through. Page after page, the artist's perfect drawings of the scenes in his play looked up at him, eager and anxious for his approval. Charles smiled, and pat the awed little man on the back. He took out his handkerchief and handed it to him.

"It's beautiful, Charles," he said, his throat raw.

"I wasn't sure if you'd like it...you being you." James laughed unsteadily, past the tears.

"I like it. Thank you."

"Happy Christmas, Charles."

"Happy Christmas."

OoOoO

The drive was long and quiet, much unlike the drive that had gotten Sylvia, James, and the boys to the cottage so long ago. They had managed to get out of the house at an earlier time, very much earlier than Emma expected that they would.

Once they got there, at 11:34 AM, James and the boys put their things in their rooms, changed, and went back outside in search of a possible candidate for their Christmas tree, accompanied, of course, by Porthos, who spent the walk into the forest sniffing the snow and the bases of trees. George and Jack carried the ax, and Michael walked alongside them importantly, with James and Peter at the rear. They had a hard time finding a tree, as most of them were old and seemingly infinitely tall and weighted down with obscene amounts of snow.

"That one!" Michael cried finally. He was pointing at a large, but not too large, pine tree. James looked at Michael, then at the tree, and scratched his head.

"It's too big, Michael," Peter said. It was very much taller than George, who was five feet six inches now, and even more taller than James, who still remained at five feet one inch.

"Do you think so?" James said, walking around and surveying it. Jack hitched the tail end of the ax into an indent in his hip.

"And how do you suggest we carry it back to the cottage?" he asked. James looked around at the group of them, thinking for a while, then shrugged. Porthos licked his nose, and looked behind them, in the direction of the cottage.

"Well, let's try chopping it down, shall we? It's a beautiful tree. I'm sure it'll fit somewhere in the living room. We'll pick out a nice spot for it when we get back, yes? Of course yes," James said enthusiastically, and smiled.

It was George's duty to fall the tree that was chosen, and it looked like this was the one in question. Jack let go of the butt of the ax, and wished his older brother luck as he walked toward the tree, and began to chop at the bottom.

"It's too difficult!" George groaned.

"Come on, George, you can do it," Peter said, excited.

"Put all your strength into it, George!" Michael practically screamed into the air. After a very long time, the tree gave way, and began to tip down towards the ground, bending the trees in its way. Porthos whined as it crashed to the earth, and as the boys jumped up and down, cheering.

"Alright, we do have to get this back to the cottage, don't we?" James said. "I think I may have a solution to that." James directed Peter back to the house, and he returned a few minutes later with a few feet of rope. They all worked on tying the tree tightly to Porthos's neck and body, then all moved to the back to help by carrying the top of it. It was hard work, getting the entire thing into the living room. Emma heard the shouting and the commotion downstairs, and hurried downstairs from the bedroom. She had meant to tell James something, but forgot completely when she saw the tree-scouting party, plus the new tree, being shoved through the door.

"Push!" George and James bellowed. The branches quivered as the dog pulled at it, and the rest of the group pushed from the back.

"Oh, my word," Emma said, her heart caught somewhere in her throat. A few pushes later, everyone came tumbling through the door onto the floor, to see Mrs. duMaurier with her eyes wide, and her mouth opened a crack like she had just eaten a fly that had been in her dinner.

"Hello, Emma," James said, saluting her from the ground. "We found a tree."

OoOoO

It took a great deal of manpower to hoist the tree into standing position inside the Christmas tree holder, and required even Emma to share some of her strength. A few inches of the tip were bent against the ceiling, and once the six of them stood back to look, they immediately broke into laughter, tears growing in their eyes.

They all climbed up to the small attic, where James had near fifteen boxes full of Christmas decorations and ornaments. He and Mary had gone to the cottage years ago for Christmas once, bringing them all with them, only to find that after they were through hanging the decorations, the cottage looked like a Christmas tree itself.

They carried a box each downstairs, and while Michael and Jack decorated the tree, Emma, James, and Peter dressed the living room. James paused for a moment to tie a bow into the fur on Porthos's head, and smiled.

"How are we going to get the star on top of the tree?" Michael asked, unraveling a rope of garland. James laughed.

"We might have to put it on a branch _near _the top," he said, and Emma smiled, as she set a Santa Claus figure on the mantle. Michael giggled, then looked at his grandmother. A thought came to his head.

"Santa Claus isn't real," he said, and everyone in the room looked at him, besides Jack, who bit his tongue and continued with the ornaments.

"Who told you that, Michael?" James said, though he was almost positive it was, indeed, Jack.

"Well, Jack did. And I thought that maybe it was you, Uncle Jim, who was Santa, but then I thought for a minute and decided that he maybe isn't real after all."

"I didn't say he wasn't real," Jack said defensively. "I said he _might _not be real."

"No, you didn't," Michael countered. Little children didn't normally lie. It didn't occur to them, because all they knew was the truth. They hadn't discovered lying yet, unless they were brought up by liars. Otherwise, the word "lie" wasn't even in their vocabulary. James smiled.

"Don't believe anything Jack says," he said. Jack gave him a dirty look. "Santa Claus is real. And any little boy who doesn't think so won't see any presents under the tree in the morning." Emma chuckled, looking at her little wooden Santa figure.

"Where's George?" she said.

"Oh, he's in the kitchen making popcorn," James answered, getting a hammer and nails from the table.

"Popcorn?" Peter said, puzzled.

OoOoO

"Tonight, I'm going to teach the four of you something that my mother taught me and my brothers when we were lads your ages." The group sat eagerly on the carpet near the Christmas tree, crowded around George's bowl of popcorn, while the dog lounged, bored, on the couch behind them. James took out a spool of black thread, and a sewing needle. He unrolled a very long line of the thread, and broke it with his teeth, then proceeded to thread the needle and poke it through one of the pieces of popcorn, so that the popcorn stayed on the string. The boys oohed and aahed, then began to make their own popcorn ropes, with the help of Emma and James. They did this until late at night, and before they all went up to bed, they wrapped their popcorn strings around their Christmas tree, and put the star _near _the top.

OoOoO

**December 1904**

_What a very worthwhile day. Charles visited this morning to give me a Christmas gift. It's wonderful: he's given me a hardcover copy of Peter Pan. He even hired an artist to do the drawings and the letters at the beginning of each chapter. I've never received a better gift in my entire life - and yet, I didn't get him one in return. I'll be getting one to him without a doubt._

_We drove to the cottage today. Emma was the only person to talk during the ride, when she entertained us with factoids about the family who had held the party last night. I still don't know exactly who hosted the party, and I'd feel silly asking, so I guess I'll never know._

_The boys and I put a great deal of effort into chopping down the Christmas tree this afternoon! After we forced it through the door and into the tree holder, we decorated it and I showed the boys how to make popcorn ropes. We might have had another one if the four of them didn't eat the rest. Ah, I don't care. I ate a few too._

_Happy Christmas!_

_-JMB_

A/N: REVEW!

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REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 12:

**H.M. Chandler - **Haha your review - short, sweet, and to the point. Thanks for reading, and continuing to read!

**KatrinaKaiba - **Charles never ceases to be amusing. He is so fun to write, and I can do anything with him and he'll be just hilarious. LOL no, James did not skip, no matter how much his character may allow it. I laughed when I saw that in your review. I've been online! Do you have my new screenname? FuNnYLilAuThoR91? If not, put it on your buddylist and I'm sure I'll show up online a lot more often. Hah - I suppose I kept putting your 'advertising' in the story because you remind me of Charles. HAHA!

**XHeartofaDragonX - **Hah - drunk people are great to write about, and Charles is adorable, yes. I'm glad you're starting to like him. Preggers. hahaha.

**Lizella - **Yay! I'm glad you'll keep reading! It's coming to an end, anyway, so I hope you'll read til the end! Thanks for all the nice comments, hope you enjoyed the fast update!

**Kris - **Haha YAY CHARLES! Yeah, that social studies thing sucked. My teachers kept telling us that we were so special because we were one of the chosen schools that were smart enough to be able to take it. I was like: oh yeah, real lucky. Good luck on the final.


	14. Dreaming

The Playwright: The Escapades Of J.M. Barrie  
Chapter 14  
Dreaming

A/N: _(June 7, 2005) _I'm all set for my Workshop this summer! I can't wait! My dad got me this black leather notebook after I won the English award in school a few days ago and I'm planning on bringing it with me. (The card said: "...a good leather binding, and a respectable title...") I'm out of my bad mood finally. I wrote a lot today for fear of losing my new happy one soon. Hope you like it!

_(June 11, 2005) _I saw Cinderella Man last night! Has anyone else seen it? I couldn't help but notice the similarities between James Braddock and James Barrie, Joe Gould and Charles Frohman. Joe's the quirky best friend and co-worker, like Charles, and he's always trying to bring his best friend up to do the best he can (in Braddock's case, to box). Braddock is the boxer, and has all the problems, like Barrie. Except James Barrie wasn't a boxer, unless history has made an error. If you saw this movie, tell me. If you haven't, go see it!

**BARRIEFACT: **"Sir James Barrie once told me that he had been happy writing for the Nottingham Journal at a salary of three guineas a week," Cecil Roberts once recalled, "and added, 'One great innovation of mine has gone unnapplauded. You see now how every newspaper at the beginning of the year presents its readers with a vast survey of the past twelve months, and a blithe prophecy of the future? Well, I was the first to do that. How I laboured at it! I wrote the whole thing. Did the world gasp? No. Not even the proprietor made any comment."

OoOoO

_Sunday_

The sun shone beautifully over the snow outside of the cottage that morning. When James went outside to his rocking chair after everyone opened their presents, he was nearly blinded by the outstanding light reflecting off of each crystal of snow on the ground and landscape. He had finished his packing when he went out, and while he sat, the rest of the family repacked their own suitcases inside. James was only a few lines into Sylvia's next entry when he heard a familiar clopping sound on the porch. He paused in his rocking and looked up. Emma's eyes had sort of a glaze over them, and her expression was of many mixed emotions all rolled into one; sadness, confusion, disappointment, wonderment, calmness, discomfort, and anxiousness. James's heart skipped a beat. He had forgotten about the possibility of Sylvia's mother finding out about the little blue diary.

"Where did you get that from?" she whispered. It was unsteady, like a cricket ball had been shoved permanently down her throat and she was talking around it. James looked up at her whitish face. It had been that way for a few days, recently, but not as much. He wanted to say something, but couldn't. All he could manage was, "I - I'm sorry, Mrs. duMaurier, I - " but Emma shook her head, and seated herself in the rocking chair next to James's. This one had been occupied by Mary once.

"Don't be sorry. I'm actually quite glad you've found it...it's been lost for so many years, and I had forgotten. May I?"

"Of course." Emma took the diary carefully, held it in her hands for a minute, and opened it. She was quiet for a long time while she read an entry, then her face wrinkled into an uneasy smile. Then, she looked up at James.

"Wherever did you find it?"

"In my - in Sylvia's room. I went to bed one night and found it under the mattress." Emma chuckled over the imaginary cricket ball lodged in her throat.

"So that's where she kept it. I was always curious about what she wrote in that diary of hers after I bought it for her birthday. I told her never to show it to anybody, and I regretted it all of...all of her life." Her voice grew hushed again, and James again was at a loss for words. He was glad she spoke again.

"Thank you, James, for finding it."

"You're welcome," he said automatically. It sounded silly after he had said it. "I'm sorry I hadn't told you about it earlier. I was afraid you would be angry at me." Emma nodded.

"I probably would have," she said haughtily, "You caught me at the right time." James smiled a bit, and so did she, but it faded, and she closed the diary, and ran her hand across the cover.

"So long ago..." Emma shook her head, unable to continue. She closed her eyes, and a tear leaked out from under her eyelashes. James could tell that it had been a long time since this woman had mourned for her daughter. Of course, she being Emma, she had probably been too caught up in things, and too busy being the strongest link in the family, that she couldn't get herself mellow enough to think about Sylvia. Perhaps the setting she was in now made her think about all of it. It had been here, of course, that her daughter had come that summer with James, and had to have a doctor be rushed in to her after her episode with her sickness.

"I miss her, James," she said, and looked at the playwright. He nodded his head, understanding. But through his understanding, he didn't know what to do when he saw her helpless expression, or when her face tangled into an upset and sorrowful form, and even though he still didn't know what to do, she leaned her head onto his chest and began to silently cry. Everything seemed to stop, and James reached to her back to comfort her. Suddenly the world didn't seem so very beautiful anymore.

OoOoO

Emma and James walked inside from the porch an hour after talking nervously to each other once she had calmed down and her tears left her eyes, to see George at the stove making breakfast.

"Morning, grandmother; morning, Uncle Jim." It was almost noon. James helped Emma to the table, and glanced at what was in front of George.

"Eggs?" he asked, trying for enthusiasm, but not succeeding. His eyes flashed to Mrs. duMaurier, who was sitting quietly, rubbing her fingernails and examining the wrinkles on her knuckles and her bony fingers. He had to make sure that George, and the rest of the boys, didn't think that anything was wrong.

George nodded, smiling.

"Looks like the extra food we packed came in handy, eh?" James said, and the eldest boy nodded again. "Didn't have to take a long trip to the market." he imagined he sounded like a fool, but George didn't notice at all, and smiled.

"Where are your brothers?" The playwright took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair next to Emma. It was far too warm in the kitchen for a heavy winter jacket.

"Outside with Porthos...having a snowball fight," George answered. James smiled as well, and his heart sped up excitedly. He wanted to get outside and play - but he remembered Emma, and knew that he had to help her in case something should happen. "I see," he said instead, then paused, disappointed. "George, won't you go and get them all? I promise I'll watch your eggs." The boy nodded, and ran off. While the two others waited, James looked at Emma, then sat down next to her. He watched her for a while, and seeing her paleness again, remembered the talk that they had had minutes before, and now knowing why she hadn't looked well a few days prior. He remembered how he hadn't seen Mrs. duMaurier as often as he should have during the Christmas party the other night. He had expected her to be tailing him the entire night, making sure he wasn't doing anything he wasn't supposed to be doing; for example, giving the boys alcohol. Now, you and I both know, that after James had seen Charles, that he wouldn't dream of letting his four precious sons get themselves into that condition. On the contrary of what Emma might have believed, he had hoped that they wouldn't even see his best friend and colleague like that, even though he had come up unexpectedly when Peter was around, asking where his grandmother was.

Emma remained still, feeling James's eyes on her, but failing to make eye contact. She was very much more solemn now, now that her secret was out.

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"James, do not bother me with this anymore," she answered promptly, a tinge of anxiety in her voice, aggressively pleading the man next to her not to continue to beg her for an answer to his recently asked question. He did not persist, though. He kept quiet, feeling honestly bad for her, feeling that she was making some sacrifice for him, though he knew that this was something that she would have to fight off on her own, and had nothing to do with that. He also knew, though, that he would do everything he could do to help.

As soon as the remainder of the group filed in through the door laughing and talking excitedly, George began serving the eggs, and conversation thereafter followed. Michael began it, with his mouth stuffed with food. "I heard Santa Claus last night, Uncle Jim! On the roof!" he said loudly, his eyes sparkling wildly. James smiled, remembering his late night rendezvous out up onto the roof over the boys' room with on the old heavy black boots he had found in the attic, which he had carelessly and flimsily shoved onto his feet.

"Did you, lad?"

Michael suddenly turned to Jack. "Didn't you hear him too?"

Jack frowned, as Michael paused to eat more eggs, and managed to let half of his glass of juice seep into his mouth between his lips.

"I told you he was real!"

"Michael, dear, don't talk with your mouth full," Emma said quietly, as though the volume of her voice was turned down to at least 2 amps. She informed Jack shortly after that she was not wanting her eggs, and the young one seized the plate, glad to eat them for her. Peter watched the scene, and seeing his grandmother's expression and being the only one to notice something was going on, looked away quickly.

_"That's it, dear, be my stomach for me." Five year old Peter smiled, looking at his mother in bed. After her husband died, she laid in bed for weeks, not able to eat anything. She said that she wasn't hungry, and every time she said this, Mrs. duMaurier's face would pinch, and she would insist that her daughter needed her nutrition, and that if she was planning on going on with life, she would have to eat more to obtain it._

_Peter took the spoon and dipped it into the soup he had brought up for his mother. His grandmother had sent it upstairs, and Peter obliged, though knowing that his mum would refuse to eat. He stuck it into his mouth gently, watching his sickly mother breathlessly, waiting for her reaction. Could she really taste the food? Sylvia closed her eyes, laid her head back against her pillow, and smiled._

_"Mmm. Your grandmother has outdone herself this time."_

_"Can you taste it, mother?"_

_"Of course I can taste it. It feels warm, like how a person feels after they have experienced something wonderful. And it tastes like - " she opened her eyes a splinter, to see what kind the soup was. "- vegetables. Your grandmother's famous vegetable soup._

_"Eat up, now, Peter. I'm only hungry if you are." Peter was delighted, and lapped up the warm liquid._

How stupid he felt now. His mother couldn't taste the soup; she couldn't feel anything in her stomach then, and he realized, with a flash of sadness, that she could feel absolutely nothing now as well.

The rest of breakfast was extremely quiet, and after it, everyone went up to their rooms to begin packing. James and Emma, who shared a room, headed up together.

"Are you alright?" James asked, once the door was closed and he had lifted his suitcase onto the mattress.

"Fine." Emma put hers next to his, and it seemed to drain every ounce of energy that still remained in her. His mouth grew dry, knowing that she wasn't telling the entire truth.

"I'm ill, James, not dying."

OoOoO

The tree was disposed of in the backyard a half hour before they cleaned the interior of the cottage and went outside with the luggage. Emma, (and this had made her extremely weary and weak) George, Jack, Peter, and even little Michael had helped James with the task, and now they walked out to the car. James locked the cottage door and loaded his bag in the trunk. He was just lifting Michael's bag, when it hit him that they were missing someone.

"Where's Porthos?" Everyone took a glance around. "Is he still in the backyard?"

"Do you want me to go check, Uncle Jim?" George asked.

"Yes, will you, George?" All four boys ran behind the house into the woods, then.

"Will you allow me to get your suitcase, Emma?"

"No, James, I can manage a few dresses and some undergarments." James stepped back and watched as the elder woman gave him a condescending glare, and began to lift her bag beside the car. It was tall, the car, and her head only peeked over the side to look at the bottom lining of the trunk in the back. She had to somehow get the thing over her head. It got tiring halfway up, and she paused, lowering it into the snow again. James continued to watch. She glanced at him again, and picked her suitcase up again. She almost got it up even further, when she closed her eyes.

"Emma?" James asked after a minute. "Are you sure you don't want me to help?"

"James, I've told you, I'm fine." She pressed herself up against the car in effort, and finally managed to get it over the edge, but she dropped it, instead of letting it fall gently into the car. She clutched her stomach, and suddenly collapsed against the it, the bottom part of her dress getting wet with snow.

"Emma!"

"Grandmother!" The boys had returned with Porthos, and each of them had a look of surprise and worry on their little faces.

"Fetch a doctor, James."

OoOoO

James couldn't move more hastily. He gave Jack the key to the cottage and told the four boys to make up the living room couch like a bed as fast as they possibly could and help their grandmother into the house and over to it. It was too difficult and pointless for her to climb the extremely unsteady and steep staircase. As soon as the other five had cleared the way, James jumped into his car, started it, and drove off along the road. His heart raced as he went over countless bumps and as his tires sprayed new fallen snow all over the fields. He had to swerve into one off the road to avoid hitting a baby deer that was only partway across the muddy road. James remembered driving the same way, just as fast, as he was now, down the same road, long ago before Sylvia's sickness. It had taken nearly an hour to get into town then, and since his car went no faster now, he assumed obviously that it would take the same amount of time. His thoughts raced the same way they had for Sylvia. He worried the entire way, not speaking or muttering to himself at all as he did often when he was alone. His throat was too constricted to allow words to pass through and out. But his thoughts swirled.

He turned off onto a neighborhood road once he had reached town, to avoid slow afternoon traffic. Halfway down it, he realized that this was the street Charles's house was on. He slowed down to the drive and hopped out. Unlike many other individuals, who would have quickly stayed away from people while they were in such a state, with such a priority to attend to, James, with his love for company, thought the exact opposite. He needed company now, and he needed his best friend's company. It is common, actually, that even when a person is dreading contact with anyone else, it is the company of one's best friend that truly is the exception to the rule.

Charles was home and accepted the invitation (although this wasn't a happy invitation, such as one to a party would be) immediately, and the two rode to the hospital together to fetch the doctor. While they waited, Charles was the only one able to stand still. James paced outside of the room that the doctor was in, and once the man came out, he begged that he make a house call at the last minute. He apologized for this quickly, saying that it was an emergency and that the cottage he had been staying in lacked a telephone.

This was a new doctor, and of course he didn't recognize James from when Sylvia was sick. He told one of the nurses to call in the other doctor immediately to attend to the patients contained in the hospital, and the party of three left for the cottage once more. It didn't take as long to get back as it had to get into town. James yelled over the car motor the entire trip to the doctor, explaining to him Emma's condition, with Charles in the back seat leaning forward to hear the conversation. James was afraid he was yelling too loud, though, because he was so nervous and wasn't listening to anything he was saying. The doctor interjected questions once in a while, but the rest of the time he remained perfectly calm as if this happened every day. But of course, him being a doctor, it probably did. For a brief second, James wished he was a doctor, so he wouldn't be as panicky.

The three men leaped out of the car and into the cottage. James almost dropped dead from relief when he saw that Emma was okay, and laying on the couch with her grandchildren around her. It seemed inappropriate to smile at this, her tired, teared face, and her chest, which was rising and falling unsteadily, but he did, glad that she was okay. Something she had said recently popped into his mind: _"I'm ill, James, not dying." _He had a horrible sinking feeling in his chest. What if she was? What would he do then?

OoOoO

James, Charles, and the boys waited in the kitchen while the doctor, whose name was Doctor Zabel. This was found out after James had actually thought to ask for his name. He didn't want to wait though. He wanted to know what was going on with Emma now. He looked at Charles, who was sitting next to James at the table. He gave a weak smile, reassuring him that everything was going to be okay. James was holding Peter and Michael, and this look from Charles made him want to be held by the producer, as he was holding the two boys. All he did, though, was pat James's back, muttering a condolence. This still helped.

All of them looked ready to pounce at any moment, ready to sprint into the living room as soon as the doctor called them in. And when he did, all six of them jumped in their seats. James turned his head so fast that he cricked his neck, and made himself look like a fool when he reached up to rub it.

"Mr. Barrie?"

"Yes..." The doctor nodded, and went back into the room. James stood, and Michael took his hand. The playwright looked down at the small boy.

"You can't come in yet, Michael," he said sadly, honestly feeling sorry for the poor lad.

"But I want to see grandmother, Uncle Jim!" James rubbed his neck again, thinking of something to say to make the boy sit back down with Peter to wait until it really _was_ his time to come visit his grandmother.

"Listen, Michael." James let go of little Michael's hand, squatted down to his height, and put his hands on his arms. "You remember Peter Pan, don't you? When Wendy and Peter were stuck on the rock in the middle of the sea? And Peter had to coax Wendy off of the rock to save herself, because the kite could only hold one person?"

"Yes," Michael said, nodding, "that was one of my favorite parts." James smiled, and felt a tear grow in his eye.

"Well the kite can only carry me, Michael. You have to be brave like Peter, and stay on the rock until it's your time to be rescued and you can get back to Neverland...to see your grandmother. You'll get to see her, Michael, but Peter had to wait to be rescued, and you have to wait to see her, until it's your time. Yes?" Michael nodded, suddenly straightening himself.

"Good man. Now stay with Charles and your brothers." James patted the little one's blonde head, stood up, and left the room.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm afraid she's having heart trouble, Mr. Barrie," Doctor Zabel said. James frowned.

"She's already told me that, doctor. What else?"

"Well, we don't have much that we can do. We can give her some medicine, but other than that, there isn't much we can do without tests."

"Who's we?" James was shaking now. He hoped Emma would be flexible enough to take her medicine if she was given it.

"Well, the nurses and the other doctors...but she needs to be taken in for tests."

"Doctor, she'll barely be able to get up from the couch, let alone be able to get to the hospital."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barrie, then there's nothing else I can do for you. You say you live out of town?"

"Well, no, I live _in _town - " I? "_We..._we live in town - the boys, Mrs. duMaurier, and I. We're just visiting here, and I didn't think this would happen - "

"I know, Mr. Barrie. I've seen things like this happen before." Had he?

"I'm sure you have - "

"And you'll have to stay here with her - "

"But I can't: I have to be at rehearsal for my play tomorrow - "

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barrie, but if you have to be somewhere, you'll have to travel back and forth. Maybe you can leave the boys here with her while you work." James's mouth hung open and he stared at the doctor a few moments while collecting his thoughts, while speaking.

"The boys?" It was okay to leave them there for an hour or so, but not for three or four. "But what if something should happen while I'm away? They'll have no way of contacting me, and I'll have the car. Well, that doesn't matter; the boys can't drive the car...and Emma can't drive in her condition..."

"If you were to leave the boys here with her, I'm quite sure she'll have no problems. As far as I can tell, she's only fatigued."

"Fatigued? _Fatigued?_" Her heart seemed fit to explode! She couldn't be just fatigued!

"Mr. Barrie, please keep your voice down. Mrs. duMaurier is sleeping now."

James let out a sharp huff. "Yes...right...well, thank you, Doctor Zabel. I'll have Charles drive you home."

"Thank you." James and Doctor Zabel went into the kitchen, and soon after James apologized to Charles for dragging him into this entire mess, (and he denied the apology, saying he was glad to help) the producer and the doctor went off in James's car.

James made Emma soup after Charles and Doctor Zabel left. Charles returned with James's car and agreed to stay overnight at the cottage so that the two could go to rehearsal together in the morning.

James sent his friend up into his room and he slept in the living room with Emma, and talked to her even while she slept in the living room with Emma, and talked to her even while she slept.

He dozed off for a while around 2 AM and when he woke up again at 3 AM, he decided that he should take this time to read a few more of Sylvia's diary entries. It was on the table (the diary) next to the couch Emma was on, and he knew that in order to get at it, he'd have to get up from the creaky wooden chair that he had placed near the couch. He rubbed his eye, watching the diary as if it was a particularly in interesting object to observe, or as if it was about to hop up off of the table and land in his lap by itself, but it just sat there, seeming to stare back at him requesting that he snatch it from the table right at that minute. Finally, when Emma rolled over in her sleep, he put a foot forward on the carpet and made his move. Once he had it in his hands and got to look at it, he noticed that it looked completely different to him now.

Now, after he had found it under his mattress that night; now, after Emma duMaurier had come to him on the porch, stricken and nervous; now, after Emma had cried on him for her daughter; and now, after she'd nearly gotten a heart attack and was lying in front of him on the couch. He looked up at her back, and swallowed. He remembered rolling his eyes at her and talking about her behind her back, and felt extremely guilty and horrible. Now she was treating him like a son, fixing his collar and suit before church, and commenting on his actions to her friends.

He looked back down at the journal. Why hadn't he told Emma about it? Why hadn't he just thought to tell her? And now she was lying in front of him with her old heart damaged and working extra hard to support her changing emotions. He knew it wouldn't hold out much longer.

A crash and the sound of someone cursing came from the kitchen, interrupting James's thoughts. Emma hadn't awoken, or even budged, luckily. James set down the diary, stood, and smoothed out his gray vest. He hadn't changed into his nightclothes, and his hair was another story. He hadn't brushed it since yesterday morning, and it was becoming quite a mess.

He ventured into the kitchen and leaned on the door frame, not much surprised at what he saw.

"Morning, Charles." Charles turned his head to look at James, and blinked. He had on a bathrobe over his own nightclothes and some red bedroom slippers. His hair and beard were both tangled and moving every which way. The light of the full moon coming in from the window over the sink made him look like a scared ghost. The broken glass on the floor at his feet sent little white dots all over the room as they reflected said moonlight.

"James." James smiled. "I'm sorry...I was just...I needed water."

"It's fine, Charles."

"What about you? Can't you sleep?"

"Couldn't if I tried."

Charles nodded. This was an extremely interesting piece of information. "Well then let's talk." James nodded, agreeing to this, and they both sat down at the table. James put his hands in his hair to hold up his head, and he looked up at Charles.

"You look tired, James."

"I am."

"Then, sleep. Come upstairs and sleep."

"I can't. I don't want to deal with the nightmares."

"You have nightmares?"

"I'm always dreaming."

Charles smirked. "True trait of an author. Always thinking, never able to let go of your imagination when you sleep. It's good."

"Sometimes it's good." A silence fell between the two, and James noticed that Porthos was sleeping on the ground in the corner, snoring. He wondered what _he _was dreaming about.

"I'm sorry, Charles."

The producer sighed. "I've already told you, James, you don't have to be sorry. It's not taking anything away from me. We're going to rehearsal tomorrow for _Peter Pan, _eh?" James nodded a bit. "Eh? Come on. Now, I haven't let you down. I want you to do the same for me. I want you to be the best you can be tomorrow, and don't worry about Emma. She'll be fine, James. Come on, I want you to do that miraculous "bouncing-back" thing you do whenever you're having a run of bad luck, to end it. Huh?" The playwright nodded again, and looked down at a crack in the table. "Now, your play's going up this Spring, and you've got another one on the way. We'll go to the print shop in a few days and put in the order. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to _die_ on me."

A/N: I'm sure that most of you will be disappointed to know that I have planned out the rest of this story, and I am currently looking at only 3 more chapters and an epilogue! This may change; I often change these predictions, but I'm pretty sure this one is solid. Be on the lookout for the conclusion! It should be done after summer begins. I want everyone to keep reading and reviewing here, especially now that it's almost over. I'm going to need the support to finish!

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REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 13:

**toothpickpocket - **It's your favorite Neverland fic? Oh man, that touches me so much! I'll remember to put in some more of James's world. There's no doubt that he'll need to get a away a few times in the next few days. Hah! Another comment on my Charles! My drunk Charles was so much fun. I knew that I needed to get him drunk somewhere, and that was the _perfect _opportunity. Yes, you'll see what happens with Sylvia's diary too. I really hope to see you reviewing chapter 14! Thank you so much for all of the comments!

**KatrinaKaiba/Neverland's Sparrow - **Yes, you should laugh. And scowl. Or a combination of the two. Haha! You were a good sport with waiting for the post on here, instead of going to the site. (pats you on the head) Thanks! Yeah, my bad spell has for the most part, passed. I know _you'll _be around for the conclusion. :)

**H.M. Chandler - **Yeah, I wasn't sure _what _to make her. I considered Anglican, but I just thought: whatever. and left it as Catholic lol. Thanks for helping me out with that!

**kris - **Yay! That was fun with the Christmas tree, eh? Finals almost over (rejoices)

**XHeartofaDragonX - **Did you pick out the line that was directed to you in this chapter? (chapter 14) :) Anywho, lol kettle corn ropes. That's great. 17 chapters plus epilogue. Hope to see you in my reviews for the rest! Luv, as always.

**Moonjava - **Awesome, thanks. Haha thanks for reading. Stay with me! More to come!

**oi-oi-oi - **oi-oi-oh man. (I made a funny) Another long review to respond to. You love me too much! (wipes tear from eye) Hahaha I was wondering what kind of response I'd get from the midget line. I'm glad you liked it at least. No one else flamed it, thank God. Oo I like Father Christmas better than Santa Claus! haha. The National Treasure story which you commented on, probably won't be written haha. sorry bout that. Hope you like the end of this one, though! Glad to see you have time, between school and homework and finals and everything, to read! Thank you!


	15. Worry And Regret

The Playwright: The Escapades Of JM Barrie  
Chapter 15  
Worry and Regret

A/N: A bit of a short chapter for you. In fact, a very short chapter. Don't worry, the rest of the story will most definitely make up for it.

I watched _A Beautiful Mind _with Russell Crowe last night. Man, was it good. He is such an amazing actor. I'm going to see _Cinderella Man _again, for my fourth time, on Friday. I'm going to be full to bursting with all of this Russell Crowe, I might explode and not be able to write the rest of the story!

So, all you people, I need enormous support and a lot of reviews to come in so that I can get over 5 to post the next chapter so people that are absolutely estatic about this story can read. Of course, do not review author's notes (KatrinaKaiba, your review has not been counted. haha) and don't review more than once. Person to get me to 100 reviews is special and gets their name at the end! (I know that's not much incentive, but that's okay.) Read. Now. I command you.

**BARRIEFACT: **J. M. Barrie was once approached by an inexperienced cast member who was anxious to give his (very minor) role the proper interpretation. "I am glad you have asked me," Barrie declared. "I should like you to convey when you are acting it that the man you portray has a brother in Shropshire who drinks port."

OoOoO

**December 1904**

_Charles and I drove back into town to the Duke Of York's this morning for rehearsal. Poor Charles, he didn't cancel rehearsal while I was gone, so he had to rehearse the actors for three hours. It was his fault he scheduled weekends._

_I'm finding it hard to concentrate on what's going on onstage at the moment. My mind is back at the cottage with Emma and the boys. I hope she'll be alright. These past few days, I've realized that I don't know what I'd do now without her. I remember the day she came to tell us that we would be moving in with her, and now I can scarcely remember what it was like for it to be just me and the boys at home. Heavens knows if we'll go back home if she ends up...passing away. Mrs. Babcock seems to be enjoying it very much, although the memories that we've left there, I think, are waiting for me to return._

_I'd like to take Emma to the hospital for tests, but I'm sure she would object to getting on her feet and into a car. I would think that she would like it very much more to be left alone at this point. _

_Ah, Lord. These entries are always interrupted, aren't they?_

_Monday_

_"James!" _James turned around to look at Charles a few rows behind him. He had his arms draped over the back of the seat in front of him, his chest pressed up against it.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing." Charles scratched his head. He couldn't exactly stop his friend from writing, especially because at the moment, James's writing was being recited up on stage in front of them."Alright." Charles stood, and called out to the actors. "Excuse me? Yes - you can all take a break now." Nina Bouccicault nearly jumped out of her leather boots, and jumped off stage to go into the Green Room. Charles walked down the aisle and sat next to James.

"Are you alright?"

"Somewhat, I think." James tapped his pen on his journal, then looked at his best friend. "Are you coming back with me?"

"Oh, no, James. I've got to do budget work. And Gerald nearly split the Darling's bedroom set in half, so that'll have to be repaired, and George needs to have his wig fixed."

"Shelton?"

"Yes..." James nodded vaguely, and Charles sighed, looking up at the set, where Gerald duMaurier was idly reading over his lines.

"I don't want to get in the way is all, James. Emma'll want to be alone with you for the time being. I don't want to interfere."

"You wouldn't be interfering."

"Just spend some time with her. God knows how much longer she'll be here."

OoOoO

James bid adieu to Charles and drove back to the cottage alone. When he got there, Porthos met him at the door, licking and mauling his hands and shoes. James bent down to pet his scruffy fur, and leaned to plant a kiss on his head.

"Where are the boys, Porthos?" The dog barked and tilted his head, leaving his tongue hanging out.

"Oh, they're _just around the big tree, eh? Well, we'll just have to go and find 'em!"_

_"Shall I be coming with you, Peter?" Nibs asked._

_"Well, of course! Come on, then, who's missing, Slightly, Curly, and the Twins?"_

_"And Tootles."_

_"And Tootles," Peter repeated. "Well, come on, follow me!" The two circled around the tree to find four of the Lost Boys._

_"Hey!" Peter called to them. The four turned and smiled._

_"Slightly, Curly, and the Twins. That's what I thought."_

George blinked, and looked at Porthos, who bent to scratch his neck with his back leg. Michael nudged Peter, and soon they all took on their own roles. Each knew exactly who they were. Michael was Slightly, George was Curly, and Peter and Jack were the Twins. It was usually that way, unless one of them nominated Jack for the role of Nibs, or if George took on Tootles. James was always Peter, though. He objected often, but the rest of the party insisted that he should be the Boy Who Never Grew Up, so he just began being Peter by himself, without the consent of the boys.

"_Where be Tootles, Peter?" Slightly said (a bit loudly)._

_"Where _is _Tootles, Slightly," Curly said matter-of-factly. "That's how the pirates talk. You don't want to be like them, now, do you?" Slightly shook his head fast-like, and crossed his arms._

_"I don't know where Tootles is," Peter said, shrugging. _

_Nibs frowned. "Well, where would you expect him to be?"_

_"With Tink, I suppose, since she's gone missing too!" said one of the twins._

_"Oh, she is missing, isn't she?" Peter said, looking around himself, disappointed. "Well, come on! We must find them both!"_

_"Anchors Aweigh!" shouted Slightly, out of excitement and ran into Peter, knocking him to the ground. The entire group started up in hysteric laughter and Nibs _began to bark loudly, crawling all over James and licking his face.

"Ay! Get out of here!" He managed to get to his knees, knocked down his dog, and vigorously started scratching his belly. He looked up for a moment, at the cottage, and saw Emma, who was standing in the doorway to the backyard in her nightgown. Her face looked sunken in and exhausted, her hair was coming out of its perfect bun, and yet, she was smiling. James was sure he had never seen her look so happy the entire time he had known her. He looked at the boys, then back at her.

"You can be Tootles."

But Emma chose not to be Tootles, or even Tinkerbell for that matter, and decided to lie down again. James helped her inside, and made dinner. Once the boys came back in with Porthos, he set the table and sat down next to Peter, ready to eat the pasta he had made. He'd stopped at the market before he left Charles at the theater and picked up a few things to make dinner. Among these things were lettuce for a salad, rolls, butter, and pasta. There was no sauce, or no cheese, but they could manage.

Emma held her own pasta bowl in her lap, sitting with her feet up on the couch, and she said grace from the living room in unison with James and her grandsons. She didn't talk for the rest of the meal, and when James checked up on her in the middle of it, she only smiled and commented on the food. He scratched his head, thanking her, and sat back down. Emma was definitely much different when she was ill.

Everyone made the best of being at the cottage another night. James laughed and joked with the boys, and before they went to bed, Emma agreed, after very much prodding and encouraging, to play a game of cards with the lot of them

At nine o'clock, James put the boys to bed upstairs. Halfway through tucking in Peter and George, he caught Michael's gaze at him, while he was getting into his own bed. The youngest boy swallowed sadly.

"What's the matter, lad?" James asked, and sat down on Michael and Jack's bed.

"I'm worried about grandmother," he said.

"I'm worried about her too," Peter said.

"We all are," James said gently, "and we'll get through this. She'll turn out alright, I can assure you. She's a tough old thing, your grandmother."

"I hope so," said George. "Last time someone got sick, it was our mother. And she didn't turn out all right. We're scared that that's going to happen to our grandmother too, Uncle Jim." James bit his tongue. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Don't worry, boys. Goodnight." He kissed them all goodnight and went back downstairs with Sylvia's diary, then sat in the comfortable chair near the couch on which Emma was now peacefully sleeping. He looked at her restful face, and swallowed. He wished that he could clap his hands for her to get better. With a sigh, he opened the diary, turned to the page he left off on, and read.

**October 14, 1872**

Rehearsals for the school play have been horrible. I go nearly every day, and some days, I don't even get to do my scene! So every day, I go to rehearsal and sit in the auditorium for an hour and a half, watching everybody else say their important lines, and when it comes time to say my line, if the time comes, I go up there, say it, and sit again until the end. I am never trying out for the school play again.

**October 15, 1872**

I've changed my mind about trying out for the school play again. What if next time I get a better part? Maybe then I can make my family proud. I hope, next time, if I do get a better part, it's bigger than Gerald's.

A/N: Hah, bet you're on the edge of your seat with Emma. Anyway, I think now might be the time to proclaim some the other ideas I had for this that I didn't use. I wanted to use them all, but some of them I had forgotten, and some of them I just didn't have a place in the story for. Some didn't fit with anything. I have a section below the story where all my ideas are written down, beneath the Chapter Summaries I write, so that I don't forget about what I need to accomplish in each chapter. So, here they are. I'll put more in the upcoming chapters.

o I wanted to have something happen with Emma and a clock, as if she was the evil ticking crocodile. Maybe taking James's watch for one reason or another, and having the entire family in the room quietly reading and listening to Emma tick, stifling giggles.

o I thought that maybe it would be okay to hook James up with a girl at the very end, so that you all wouldn't have to suffer through my bad angst writing. So I thought he might see this woman in the park one day, and never get to know her name through all of Spring, but he'd be writing about her all the time in his journal. He'd meet her in the last chapter when he would have been alone in the theater putting on a one-man show for himself on account of boredom. She would have showed up, and would have begun to clap at the end, and he would have been astounded, and glad to meet her for the first time.

Two more chapters (and the Epilogue) to go...

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 14:

**Moonjava - **Aww you read it right when I posted hehe. I feel special now! Thanks!

**ChelseaEvans - **Aww! That's so nice! Yeah, there is some bad stuff in here...I'm always thinking about that, if that's driving my own audience away lol. No offense to the other people writing in the category. If I like your stuff, you know who you are. The problem is that the movie is one of those kinds of movies that is just calling out to bad-angsters, as one might call them. Kinda like Harry Potter with the Draco/Harry slash, which I hate. Anywho, I hope to see more reviews in the future, as this comes to a close! I look forward to it!

**KatrinaKaiba - **I see you're putting up with this penname haha. I'm sorry about making you wait for my posting, but it had to be done. Don't worry, don't worry, I won't ruin my story and make it horrible and hard on the eyes. Thanks again, luv.

**Lizella - **Hah! You might have to kill me, you might not. We'll see. Hope you liked the update.

**Kris - **You better not have given me a virus (narrows eyes) haha just kiddin', mate. Thanks for reading again.

**XHeartofaDragonX - **Yes, there was a line directed to you. That's okay, I showed it to you already lol. And I can't say anything about the end of the story. No way, no how. I love having people yearn for what happens lol. (again..LOLOLOL I'm ok.)


	16. Parting

The Playwright  
Chapter 16  
Parting

A/N: **Kris - **So I can warn you before you need to take a pause to get them - get your tissues now. (see your review for ch. 15)

The memories are scenes you'll have to re-read from this story. (and one from the movie) I'd really like you to read them. It'll make you remember what's happened, and I know many of you have forgotten. You'll enjoy reading them, as I've chosen the highlights of the story.

This chapter is looong. Enjoy!

Inside: A flashback, many memories, an excerpt from_ Peter Pan, _and two stories.

**BARRIEQUOTE: **"I made Peter by rubbing the five of you violently together, as savages with two sticks to produce a flame. That is all he is, the spark I got from you."

OoOoO

James went for a walk in the woods with Porthos the next morning. It was very peaceful outside, and it had warmed up considerably since the day before. The sun watched James and his dog through the otherwise heavy cloud covering and canopy of the forest, smiling at them the entire way. Somehow, James was already almost positive that this would be a very good day.

When he walked back through the door of the cottage, he found Emma on the couch, looking through the blue diary, which James had left on the coffee table the night before. She smiled at him when he entered.

"What is it?" he said, and took off his coat.

"I advise you to look to the very last entry, James, when you get a chance."

"I haven't looked there yet."

"You're almost there." Emma closed the book and stretched her arm out to set it back on the table. She looked more drained and exhausted than ever.

"Oh, I'm tired, James," she said, rubbing her face. It was so much different for someone who wasn't in Emma's condition to say that, but for her to was heart-wrenching.

"I know you are." He sat in his chair, and looked at her with mournful eyes. She had her own closed, but a grimace came over her face, and she opened only one of her eyes."I knew you were looking at me like that. Don't. You hear? I'm going to be just fine."

"Alright...well, I'll go make some breakfast, eh? The boys are still sleeping, I presume?"

"Yes. You make breakfast. I may doze off for a while, but I want you to wake me up when you're finished. you may talk to me from the kitchen if you'd like." James nodded and left the room. He went to the icebox, extracted a couple of eggs, and made his way over to the stove to start the fire in it. He heard Mrs. duMaurier sigh.

"So, how have rehearsals been?"

"Tiring. Everyone's been sharp lately. Although I'm not positive it was a good idea to start them such a long period of time before the performance. I'm afraid that they'll all be over-rehearsed, and they'll be able to say the lines without thinking, which is actually, bad, because they may forget a line. If that makes any sense at all."

"Mhm..." she sounded distant. Tired and bored.

"Charles wanted rehearsals to be three hours every day. He's worried that something will go wrong and we won't have enough rehearsal time. I wish he'd leave them to me, and work more with the budget. He knows more about that than I do. I'm better with words than I am with numbers." He paused from feeding a log into the stove. "I imagine I'm boring you."

"Not at all," Emma muttered quietly. She was falling asleep.

"I'll let you rest - you don't have to listen. It's nice to have someone else to talk to who understands what I'm saying. The boys aren't the best candidates, and Porthos doesn't answer back." he was rambling, and knew he needed to stop. He stayed quiet for a long time while he got out a pan, cracked the eggs, and dropped them carefully into the pan, tossing the shells into the wastepaper basket. While the eggs cooked, James went into the living room where Emma had, indeed, fallen sleep. Her chest rose and fell slowly, and she had a hint of a smile on her face, as she was listening to James's foolish lecture a few minutes before she drifted off.

James went over to her and sat in his comfortable chair. His eyes rolled to look out of the window at the snow, but when he looked back at Emma, something was strange. It had gone completely quiet in the room. He didn't hear her breathing anymore, and her body wasn't moving a centimeter. His heart skipped a beat, and he rushed to her wrist to find her pulse. Nothing. After a moment, he realized what he was holding wasn't Emma anymore. Emma's insults were Emma. Emma's presence was Emma. Emma's actions were Emma. This was not Emma. His hand grew sweaty and loose, and he dropped her wrist. It landed with a soft _thud _on the cushion of the old couch. It was like being poisoned. James's stomach felt like it was about to explode. His body had shut down with hers, and he felt nothing but sadness. He remembered feeling the same way after Sylvia died, though then, it was even more so.

James remembered the day Sylvia passed all too well. They'd gotten her into the hospital, finally, and James and the boys were sitting in the waiting room on the bench.

_The boys were all crying against James's coat. He hadn't been able to take it off when he got into the hospital building. Now, there was absolutely no way he could. He couldn't move at all, and the world seemed to blur. He wasn't sure if it was because he was tired, or if it was because he was worried. He felt Michael blow his nose on the black coat, but didn't care at all. He put his hand on the back of Michael's head, and kissed his golden head._

_"It'll be alright, Michael. Shh." James rubbed Peter's back with his other hand, and looked up toward the door of the hospital room. He wanted to make it move. Wanted to find out what was happening inside of there because he _needed to know

_Finally, a doctor came out, and James urged the four boys off of him. He stood up, and the doctor led him into a corner._

_"What's wrong? She's alright, yes? She's doing better?"_

_"No, Mr. Barrie. She's not doing better." James panicked._

_"No. She is. She actually - " he cleared his throat, "she actually was looking better when we left, she smiled, and she didn't look as pale - "_

_"Mr. Barrie. She's gone." James's heart banged against his organs for a while, then seemed to break loose and drop onto them._

_"Are you sure?" It sounded foolish when the words came out of his mouth._

_"Would you like to see?"_

_'No!' his mind said. "Yes, yes, I want to see." The doctor took James into the hospital room, and what James saw was horrific. Sylvia was lying there in the bed, one hand still on the bedside table, and the other still clasped around the sheets. Her face looked depressed and surprised, and she was staring at the ceiling. A nurse moved toward her to close her eyes. Emma duMaurier, who he had just noticed, was bawling into her handkerchief, but she looked up from it for a second with puffy red eyes to see James. He shook his head._

_"No," he said. "No, this is - I'm dreaming, aren't I? I have these dreams all the time." he touched the doctor's arm. It felt warm and like...a doctor's arm. He wasn't dreaming."I'm sorry, Mr. Barrie." _

_"This is impossible," James said breathlessly, and looked from Emma to Sylvia again. "It's - it's impossible." He backed out of the room._

_"James - " Emma choked, but James had already begun to leave the hospital. He didn't know where he was going, or what he was doing, for three hours of his life, but he walked around town, and walked out of town, then back into town on another street, all the while, shaking his head and thinking. It took him three hours to stop, and he sat on a bench. He buried his face in his hands and sat there until he was ready to go home. When he got there, he went to his room without supper, and began to write. Two days he'd went without food, or contact with another person. He wandered to his library to look things up once in a while, but he'd only find himself locked back in his room again, his hand clasped around his pen. Sarah and Emma avoided him, knowing that if they tried to talk to him, it would only make matters much, much worse. So he sat alone for two days, convincing himself that it must have been his fault. When he finally opened the door to his room, fully dressed, to see Sarah standing before him, he smiled._

_"I'm going to the park now." And he left._

The denial of death is something all of us have gone through. Whether it is a pet, or, worse, a family member, all of us have denied their passing, even if only for a second. _"It can't be true," _we say to ourselves. We check their pulse and motion, hoping to God that it isn't true. Those seconds of waiting for the result are the longest of our entire lives.

When a person becomes attached to another person, so that when you see them, you're used to seeing them and expect them to be there for you, you think that there's no way that the person won't be there one day. Some may call it "taking advantage" of the person's presence, but it's much less harsh than that. One has their mind set so that they are convinced they'll always be with the person, and it's difficult to change one's own mind once circumstances change. The feeling is horrible.

James slowly took Emma's still hand in his again, attempted to swallow an enormous lump that had grown in his throat, and looked up at her face. The only thing now that belonged to Emma, was what was on her face, he realized. It still held her familiar mocking, playful smirk. That was all he needed.

OoOoO

_"Why, Tink! How dare you drink my medicine?" But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air. "What is the matter with you?" cried Peter, suddenly afraid._

_"It was poisoned, Peter," she told him softly, "and now I am going to be dead."_

_"Oh, Tink, did you drink it to save me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"But why, Tink?" Her wings could scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear "You silly ass," and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on her bed. His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room and he knelt near her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter, and he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it. _

_Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said. Then he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well again if children believed in fairies..._

It was completely quiet besides the distant drone of the priest, speaking slurred Latin from the right hand side of the grave. James and the boys stood at the foot of it, staring at the headstone, hoping, still, that what they were seeing wasn't really there, and it was some dream they had gone too deep into. Though try as they may, none of them could wake up.

James felt a hand on his shoulder and reached up to put his own on top of it. He looked over his shoulder, and Charles smiled. It was almost not there, as if he hadn't even meant to do the action. James looked away, to the head of the grave, where Mrs. Babcock was standing with her husband. Both smiled at him, and clasped hands. James smiled back, and looked over at the toothless girl from the orphanage, Gretchen. She smiled at James, and now four of her teeth were missing in front. James gave sort of a teary chuckle, and suddenly remembered who he hadn't yet aknowleged. He looked to Sylvia's grave, next to Emma's, smiled, and swore to himself she was smiling back at him.

He was experiencing a wonderful feeling then. He was so happy - happier than he had been in a long time. He was amazed too, that he could even be happy during such a horrible event. James knew exactly what he was being happy for, though. All these people here - Gerald duMaurier, Elisa Babcock and her husband, Charles, Peter, Michael, George, Jack, Gretchen, and Sylvia, were all here for Emma, and for him, and loved them, at times when love was most needed. They'd helped when help was most needed.

Charles, when James needed a companion to go to the hospital with before Emma's death, and for being there for rehearsal every day, and for cheering James up when it needed it most.

_"Costumes. We'll call the tailor and order better costumes. You can't argue with me that costumes make a show better."_

_"If they're only there to make the show better, we don't need costumes either," James replied. Frohman froze, staring at his partner, then adjusted his coat, looking at the floor for a while._

_"Okay, James," he said, and bit his lip. He looked back up, then spoke with a straight face. "Opening night." James nodded. "Okay? You got everything you wanted."_

_"Everything I wanted."_

_"Because you wrote the play."_

_"Because I wrote the play."_

_"Right. So it's opening night and inside the theater you've got over a dozen nude actors and actresses, in a completely empty room, in which the walls have been painted white, because, you know, there are no sets. And no costumes. Just like you wanted." James had to smile. "What else don't you want? The stage? The seats? Well we probably don't need the seats, because," Charles closed his fingers around the newspaper and smacked it on his hat. "We'll have no audience, James!"_

Mrs. Babcock, for pounding him out of writer's block, giving him a powerful idea for Peter's play.

_"My, my. I do say I've never met a man with words on his face before," she said, a kind of devilish smile coming to her own face._

_"I must be one in a million," James said, smiling back. This even made Peter smile; maybe the first time he had done it in quite a few days._

_"Well, Man With Words On His Face. I'm Elisa Babcock." She held out a gloved hand._

_"J.M. Barrie." He took it in his hand and shook._

_"Ah, J.M. Barrie. I've read many of your plays and novels. And not to mention seen countless. Peter Pan was my favorite, as I'm sure many have told you."_

_"Aye." James nodded._

_"It's quite an honor to meet you in person, I must say."_

_"Well, thank you. It's an honor to meet you as well."_

_"Oh, well I can hardly say I'm one to be recognized anywhere," Elisa said, chuckling a bit._

_"Meeting anyone new is an honor. No matter what their level of fame." The woman smiled._

_"Interesting the way you look at it. Anyway. I must go - do you have the time?"_

_"Yes, yes - " James took out his pocket watch. "Quarter to eight."_

_"Thank you very much, Man With Words On His Face."_

Peter, for giving James all of his inspiration for the best play he'd ever written.

_"Did they leave already?" he asked after a few moments, resting his hand on the banister and his expression nothing but seriousness. This reminded James of a certain woman he used to know. He fixed his face in the same fashion, careful though, so it didn't look mocking._

_"Yes, they did." Peter looked out the window next to the door, then said, "Where are we going? To the park?" James nodded. _

_"Aye."_

_"Why?"_

_"A few reasons."_

_"Name them." James raised his eyebrows. "I want to talk to you," he said._

_"Is that all?"_

_"I want to write. I need to write something for a friend of mine...at the orphanage. She'll be losing a tooth soon." Peter nodded knowingly (after all, if James and his grandmother weren't taking care of him, he'd be at the orphanage himself) and began walking down the stairs._

_"It's better than having to go to school," he muttered._

_"You'll have to go tomorrow," James said. Peter spun around on his heel and looked up the few inches he was lacking to being the same height as his guardian. "You can't make me."_

_"I made you stay home."_

_"I wanted to stay home."_

Gretchen, for making him feel welcome in the orphanage the day he came, and for giving him so much pleasure in writing. She was the definition of youth, the way we start out, and the way we live.

_"Mister!" James looked down to see a girl wearing a jumper too big for her tugging on his jacket. She looked to be about six years old - Michael's age._

_"Hello," he said, giving the small girl a smile. She smiled back, revealing the fact that she was missing both of her front teeth. James raised his eyebrows, the same playful smile plastered on his face._

_"Well, look at that," he said, crouching down to her level and setting his bag on the floor. _

_"What?" she asked, a bit puzzled._

_"Open your mouth again."_

_"Oh." She giggled, and obeyed, now realizing what this strange man wanted to see. James looked into her mouth and clicked his tongue a few times._

_"And where did you put those teeth, young lady?" he asked critically, but soft enough as not to offend her._

_"Sister Theresa took them." James's eyes grew exaggeratedly wide, and he covered his mouth with three fingers._

_"What? What's wrong?" The girl asked, worried by his reaction._

_"It's just that...ye' should've put 'em under your pillow."_

_"Why?"_

_"Well, haven't ye' ever heard of the Tooth Fairy?" The girl shook her head. James acted surprised, though in reality, he wasn't. This child was young, so she probably had grown up here. Many of the children here had, he knew. The nuns didn't speak to the children of such magic. There were too many, especially in this orphanage, for a nun to talk to a child directly._

_"Well, see, when you lose a tooth, you put it under your pillow at night, an' the next morning, you'll find something special under your pillow. Some money, or some candy, or clothes. That's because the Tooth Fairy came to your house. She flies around each night to the houses of children who've lost teeth, and takes them back with her and leaves a present for you."_

_"What does she do with all the teeth?" James paused, now knowing what to tell her. He'd never thought about this before._

_"Well...she puts them all in a big sack, and flies back to her hideout...and makes things with them."_

_"Makes things?"_

_"For the other fairies."_

_"There are other fairies?"_

_"Oh, sure! An' in fact - " James glanced around him, and noticed that a small queue of children had formed around he and his friend. He smiled, and continued. "In fact, for each child, a fairy's living somewhere." A gasp went around the group._

_"Do I have a fairy?" This time, it wasn't from the first girl, but another girl, an older girl, standing next to a boy with playing cards in his hand. Clearly he and his friend had finished their game and decided to see what was going on._

_"Of course you have a fairy! Everyone has a fairy"..._

The remainder of the boys, for giving him so many memories that he held to the day. They reminded him of Sylvia, and every time one of them walked into the door, he smiled. They couldn't be ignored. Michael, at the age of full innocence; Jack, daring, arrogant, and mischievous; and George, a man already, at his age, caring, protective, and willing to do anything for his brothers.

_Jack was the first of the three to see the display and tapped George for his attention. George looked upon Peter, his face turning pale. When all five boys reached the flagpole, Peter hurried to George's side, and one of the four that had been behind him looked at his brothers._

_"Do you know him?" He asked Jack._

_"Are these the lost boys, Peter?" Another said._

_"Leave him alone," Jack said, frowning. _

_"What do you care what we do?" The first speaker said._

_"We're his brothers," George said, "That's why." He noticed that all four of them were of his age and size, and found that it was easy to talk to them. He wasn't afraid anyway...more angry._

_"That's funny, I thought Peter Pan was the only child in his family."_

_"No, these are the Davies orphans," a slightly smaller boy said._

_"We're not orphans," George said heatedly. "We have a father."_

_"Oh, the playwright? James Barrie?" The shorter one laughed at this recognition. "You know what I've heard about JM Barrie and the four of you?" _

_"Whatever you heard, it's not true."_

_"I heard my father and my mother talking the other night about him." The shorter boy again. "I've heard he's - "_

_"It's not true," George was speaking through gritted teeth now and found himself smack in front of the largest one of the group, a boy with blonde hair. "He's good to us. He wouldn't dream of anything like that."_

_"Are you sure about that?" The blonde boy chuckled. "I heard that he took you in for other reasons. I heard that he argued with your grandmother so he could have the four of you all to himself."_

_"That's not true at all!" Jack yelled._

_"Why do you live with him then?"_

_"We live with our grandmother." Michael said. The shorter one nodded mockingly. "And I suppose you're going to go and tell me fairies are real now," he said. George's stomach flipped uneasily, but he stood his ground and raised his chin defiantly._

_"They are," he said._

_"Are they?"_

_"That's right," Michael said._

_"Shh," came Jack._

_"Why don't you prove it then?" The blonde boy smiled after a moment, and spat at George's feet when he didn't answer. Then he turned to walk away, his three friends following. But this was enough for the oldest Davies boy. They insult his brother and his Uncle Jim? He clenched his fists, waiting until the blonde one was far enough away. And when he was, he ran at him. Leaping at him, pinning him to the ground. Michael jumped, and hugged Jack's waist, burying his face in his coat. Peter watched, his heart caught in his throat._

_"RUN, PETER!" George managed to shout._

Sylvia, for her undying love and support to both her boys, and James.

_"You can't go on just pretending," James said gently._

_"Just pretending?" Sylvia paused. "You brought pretending into this family. You showed us we could change things by simply believing them to be different."_

_"A lot of things, but not everything - "_

_"But the things that matter. We've pretended for some time now that you're a part of this family, haven't we? You've come to mean so much to us all that now, it doesn't matter if it's true. And even if it isn't true, even if that can never be... I need to go on pretending. Until the end. With you."_

"Can we go yet, Uncle Jim?" Michael said, looking up at James. He looked at the boy, then looked around. The priest had gone, and now everyone was lingering to mourn. Charles still had his hand on James's shoulder, though James had let go of it with his own a while ago.

"Yes...yes, we can go." He turned to Charles.

"Thank you," said James. Charles smiled and nodded, knowing full well what James was thanking him for.

"Will I see you at rehearsal tomorrow? If you don't want to go..."

"Yes, of course. I'll be there."

"Alright. Goodbye, James."

"Goodbye." James looked to Mrs. Babcock and her husband, who were approaching slowly.

"Hello, Mr. Barrie. This is my husband, Walter." Walter shook hands with James and gave him a friendly smile.

"I'm very sorry," he said. It was amusing to James that he was saying such a thing with a smile on his face, but he only smiled back, remembering what a fan the man was of his writing.

"Thank you, very much."

"Mr. Barrie!" James looked down at Gretchen, who smiled again. "See?"

"Oh, yes, look at that!"

"I lost another, but you didn't come that time. You did the time before, though."

"Oh, that wasn't me. It was the Tooth Fairy."

"You are the Tooth Fairy, Mr. Barrie!" Jack rolled his eyes, and Peter smiled. Michael's eyes and mouth opened wide.

"He's Santa Claus, too!"

"You're Father Christmas, Mr. Barrie?" Mrs. Babcock laughed.

"I guess I am," James said, smiling. He looked down at Gretchen, puzzled. "Mrs. Babcock," he said slowly, "The three of you - did you come here together?" She smiled.

"I adopted her. Just the other day. We came to the orphanage, my husband and I, and she ran up to us to show us her teeth. Then, she said that a Mr. James Matthew Barrie had given her a story in exchange for her tooth." James laughed.

"Well, well. You're in good hands, Gretchen, I'll tell you that." Mrs. Babcock chuckled. "Where's Gerald?" James said to himself, and looked around. He found who he was looking for easily, and he was sitting next to his mother's headstone.

"It was very nice to see you again, Mrs. Babcock, Mr. Babcock. And Gretchen, of course."

"It was a pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Barrie. Come along, Gretchen." The three left the graveyard, and James again looked at Gerald.

"George, will you take your brothers home? I need to see someone." George nodded, and led Peter, Jack, and Michael back to Emma's. James walked over to Gerald duMaurier slowly, and sat next to him.

"Hello, James," he said.

"Hello." There was a long pause, and neither man spoke. James didn't want to rush anything.

"I've never thanked you, James. You took in my sister's sons. You didn't have to, but you did. It means a lot to me, James."

"They're wonderful boys."

"I see bits of my sister in each of them. She'd do the most...insane things when we were growing up. She was a daredevil - I think that's safe to say. And other times, she'd be quiet and want to be alone. She believed everything she heard...every conspiracy, the gossip of the town. She was loyal, and there to make you laugh, or to comfort you when you were sad. I miss her. First, my father, then my sister, and now, my mother." James looked at the grass that they were sitting on. It was April, and the grass was as green as it could get. "My mother was critical and sarcastic, and protective, but there was another side to her. She was loving and caring. No matter what Sylvia and I did, she'd still love us, and always forgive us if one of us did something wrong. I miss her, James."

James nodded. "I understand. After living with her through December, I saw her differently than I had before. The three months between then and now, I've been feeling lonely. I've had to do work on the funeral, and have had to make sure that the Will was ready for the reading tomorrow. At those times, I couldn't think of anything but Sylvia and your mother. They were always there, and now they aren't."

"I understand," Gerald said, and a tear fell down his face. "I should have helped you with things. I'm very sorry. I feel guilty having someone who isn't a member of my family do all of the work, while I mope around trying not to think about anything."

James shook his head. "I'm happy to. You have a right to mope." They both smiled, and James looked at Gerald. He frowned. "And I casted _you _as Captain Hook."

A/N: A longer chapter, and a sadder chapter. I really hope you're still enjoying the story, even though it's a bit sad. There are only two more chapters left, and I recommend you stick around for the conclusion. Please be patient. It might take a while for me to come out with chapter 17 and my Epilogue, but I don't want any of you to stop reading or reviewing, because I need them to post chapters for people who want to see the ending. I will be generous and post if I only get four, but I really want your cooperation.

For now, I have some more unused ideas.

o I was thinking of having Emma burn half of James's manuscript for _The Man With Music On His Face. _This event would change the entire tone of the story, and maybe contribute even more to James's guilt upon Emma's death. I seriously considered this for a long time, until I dropped it, obtaining different plot ideas. I'm so mad about not being able to use this idea, but I honestly didn't want that much sadness or hatred between the two.

o The pond behind Emma's house was going to be very much more utilized when I created it. I wanted to have James and the boys watch and feed ducks on it, and have them swim in it during summer, but it would have made the story much longer, and I didn't want to skip so much to get to summer.

o James and the boys needed to climb a tree together. This was such a fun idea, but I ran out of time.

o This is another idea that would have completely changed the plot. It would have directed the plot more to the performance of _Peter Pan, _that it would have to Emma's death, and of course, made the story longer. I wanted Gerald duMaurier to break his leg and not be able to perform. I would have put James in Gerald's place as Captain Hook.

_**Review, guys, it can't hurt that much. I wanna finish this up soon!

* * *

**_REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 15:

**kris - **I wish you had the imagination too. LOL I'm kidding. I'm glad you actually reviewed this - the reviews came slow for this chapter, I don't know why. I hope I get enough to post the end of the story. I don't want to post it all at once so that people don't get overwhelmed, and I don't want to post it too slow so that people lose track of the last chapter, or tear their hair out of their head waiting. (If I even have readers like that) I bet you used a whole BOX of tissues reading this chapter. Hah! Hope you liked it, nonetheless! Stick around for the conclusion!

**Neverland's Sparrow - **(smacks forehead) You drive me absolutely insane, do you know that? I might have to send the Nazis after you. Hahaha! Anywho, yes it was horrible. Thank you very much for everything else and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**H.M. Chandler - **Unfortunately, James will not meet a girl. Haha. I'm glad school's out as well, and I'm very excited for summer. I'll read your chapter 17 if you read mine when it comes! Thank you so much!

**XHeartofaDragonX - **Now you know what happens. Hah - no, the girl I was thinking of would have probably had blonde hair. Thanx for readin/reviewin again, hun. luvya.


	17. A Newly Discovered Secret

The Playwright  
Chapter 17  
A Newly Discovered Secret

A/N: Okay, the results are in. I am now over 100 reviews, which means there was indeed a 100th reviewer somewhere in there! After deducting 3 double-chapter reviews which were submitted after I said not to throw off my counting, the 100th reviewer is (dramatic pause) **XHeartofaDragonX! **This is an award very well-deserved. This person is my best friend, and has been since (the very end of) fourth grade. No, it doesn't seem like a long time, but we had 4 awesome years as friends and I hope those years build as we get older, through bad and good. I would like to let **Neverland's Sparrow **know that if I didn't deduct three reviews, _she _would be my 100th reviewer. So, if I did or didn't, the award would go well deserved either way.

I would also like to take the opportunity now, to thank the people that made my review count 109 (counting the 3 uncounted reviews this time) instead of just 100. These people are **H.M. Chandler, XHeartofaDragonX, Kris, cornishxxxpixie, **and **Lizella. **Thank you!

Now, I have a good ending chapter here, I think. I apologize wholeheartedly for the wait. I haven't been in the mood to type what I'd written in my Black Notebook for a very, very long time. I have been following J.M. Barrie's model of not writing when you're not in the mood. (look back to chapter 4) I've also created a livejournal for my ramblings, so you won't have to endure much more. I will say here, though, that I saw _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _about a week ago, and I loved it. Anyway, thanks for being so patient with me! I hope you enjoy this!

Much Love, MJ

OoOoO

The end of Emma's story wasn't as happy as that of Peter Pan's story, but an ending nonetheless. It had been a tough year, with Peter's difficulties at school, James's play, and Emma becoming ill so horribly fast. James, sitting in the hard chair of the large room where the Will was being read, thought of the day Emma came for the five of them, at James's house. Then, the prospect of going to live with Emma duMaurier was completely ludicrous, almost insane. He couldn't believe now, that he'd ever thought anything like that.

The room was warm. A comfortable warm. A good temperature to fall asleep in. Michael had already done so on James's arm, and was snoring softly, while Jack and even the man with the Will looked ready to do likewise. Emma had had many friends, and very many treasured items in her enormous house. The length of the list of beneficiaries was almost endless. The man droned on, and as each name was called, someone in the hall's face would brighten. As James looked around at all the very different people in the hall, he thought he could easily write a play, just about a group of people acquiring old, forgotten nothings from an unnamed victim of death. He was sure, though, that he wouldn't acquire anything, himself, as he thought that Emma hadn't had the time, motivation, or reason to add him in her Will. Either that, or he was very, very far down on the list.

Mr. and Mrs. Babcock and Gretchen were there, seated behind James and the boys, glad that they had received the old clock on the mantle that had once belonged to Emma's grandmother, and a painted lamp. They were fanning themselves with spare bits of paper, more relaxed now that they knew that they weren't cut out of their friend's Will. James knew, though, that they wouldn't have, as it seemed that everyone from old, bosom friends of hers, to a man she'd said 'hello' to once in a restaurant, had been given something. Everyone in the room was extremely anxious. James had begun to fall asleep, like Michael, and closed his eyes for a minute, nodding off, but careful to twitch himself back awake. He managed to stay awake long enough, though, to learn that he had inherited Emma's stables.

OoOoO

On the way back from the reading of the Will, James remembered what Emma had said to him back in December, the day she had died. He had been running all over organizing the funeral and burial services, and thoughts of that had covered her instructions, and they had been completely lost in his more urgent thoughts. She had told him to look on the final page of Sylvia's diary. He had no idea of what was there, but was intent on finding out.

James and the boys had decided to continue living in Emma's house, allowing Mrs. Babcock, with her husband and new daughter, the privilege of resuming life in the former Barrie house. So, when James, Jack, Peter, George, and Michael returned to their new home, the playwright raced to his bedroom, pulled the drawer in his bedside table forward, and withdrew from it with care, Sylvia's little blue diary. He sat on his bed and opened the book quickly, smelling the familiar perfume as he flipped pages to the very last one. It was a fairly short entry, and written in near cursive; clearly not the handwriting of an eight year old. James's heart fluttered around in his chest, and he took a slow deep breath to collect himself. Then, he began to read.

OoOoO

After looking out his bedroom window and into the backyard, James found Peter sitting on the bench on the bank of the pond with his journal, writing. He put Porthos on his leash, and went downstairs, and into the backyard. Peter looked up for a second, then back down at his writing, his hand not ceasing its movement. James sat down, and then Peter looked up and gave his guardian a small smile.

"Good evening," he said.

"Good evening," James returned, nodding his head. Peter wrote a bit more, then looked back at James. "What are these stables you mentioned?" The playwright smiled back.

"We'll go and see tomorrow, eh?"

"Grandmother took you one day, didn't she?"

"Yes. Yes, it's beautiful there."

"And you rode a horse?" Peter closed his journal, honestly interested in his guardian's answer, and James chuckled, thinking back to winter, and the baggy clothing he was given, when he had visited the horse stables with Emma out in the country.

"I did," he said. Peter smiled, and a long silence followed the brief conversation. James looked out at the pond. It was indeed different that it had been in the winter, with fish and frogs jumping in and out of the glossy pool, rippling the water. Grass had grown up around the edges; it hadn't been cut since a man had come to the house to, a month before the family had left for the cottage. This observation brought to mind that he was responsible, now, for partaking in keeping up all of the little details of Emma's past life on Earth, because, obviously, she couldn't do it for him or herself now. The stables would be a big job, and he'd have to pay very much money to keep the property in working order and in preferable conditions, but he was, though, thoroughly touched that he had inherited it from her.

Then, James remembered the diary, and what he'd truly come to Peter about. He looked at the boy, who had begun writing again, and bit his lip.

"Would you have ever...wanted me to be your father, Peter?" he asked slowly, awkwardly. Peter looked up at the playwright, his gentle smile having been absorbed into his newly darkened face.

"I mean if...your mother..."

Peter's face darkened even more at this. "She wouldn't have," he retorted stiffly. James wrapped part of Porthos's leash around his wrist as his nerves began to act up, took Sylvia's diary out from under his arm, and held it out to the boy next to him.

"What is that?" James nudged it toward him more, and he finally took it, and began to look through it.

"This was my mother's," he whispered finally.

"Read it," James requested quietly. As soon as the words slid off of his tongue, they remained on his mouth, burning his lips. Peter looked at James with his mouth open, his heart beating the way James's had the first time he'd set his hands upon Sylvia's mysterious diary, and flipped another page. His eyes remained on James, though, and he didn't look down at the page he had flipped to for a long time. When he saw the words, he began to read aloud.

"_Sixteenth June, 1904. Mother's downstairs talking with our guests while waiting for dinner to be finished. I told her I was going to freshen up, but I remembered this diary of mine. My, what a silly child I seemed to be. A man I met the other day in Kensington Gardens, would object, though. He's in love with the idea of a child, with the innocence they hold, which we adults do not. His name is James Barrie, the author of Peter Pan. He's quite an amazing man, he is. He's a model human being, I think, for all of us. He doesn't pay any mind to what anybody says, and does whatever he believes is right. (I wish the rest of the gritted, straight-backed citizens of our town felt the same way. Sadly, they don't.) My mother continues to be wary of him, but he keeps coming back all the same to play with my boys. They love him dearly, all of them, and I feel that he loves them back just as much. Peter doesn't show it, but I'm certain he's quite fond of him as well._" Peter turned the page and cleared his throat slightly before continuing on to the following paragraph. _"Overall, our lives have recently changed significantly because of Mr. Barrie. The tone of my household hasn't been as light and giddy since before Arthur died. Michael talked about their last game all through dinner the other night, and I found Jack, George, and Michael engaging in a game of their own in their bedroom this afternoon._" Peter's heart caught in his throat as he read over the next line in his head, and his voice filled with tears, and his words came out unsteadily as he spoke. He didn't dare look at James. "_And, I think that my feelings may be even stronger. I think I may love him. I'm afraid to, though: Arthur may be looking down at me from Heaven and crying, full of disappointment. I have never wished to disappoint him, when he was alive, or even now, while he's gone._

_I do believe that James would be a wonderful father to my boys, and a loyal husband. I do not know what will happen,_" Peter let out a shaky breath, sniffed quietly, and filled his lungs again with air. "_I do not know what will happen, and can only hope that the day will come where Mr. Barrie proposes marriage to me. If the time were to come, I will confess now that I would gladly accept. For now, I shall live life with courage and go willingly in the direction it takes me. That's all I can do, really._

_I would write more, but Mother's calling me down to supper. Goodbye, for now. I hope to write again very soon._

_With Love,_

_Sylvia Llewelyn-Davies._"

It took a few seconds for the shock to wear off of Peter. He sat with the diary in his hands, reading over the entry to himself and continuing to avoid James's gaze, which he now saw out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he drew up the courage to look up at the playwright.

"Why did you show me this?" he asked quietly.

"You needed to know."

"Why did I need to know?" Peter's voice was rising now. "Why would I wish to know that my mother had abandoned the love she had for her dead husband and had gone on to loving you?"

"Listen to me, Peter. Wouldn't you think it wise for me to show you this, so that you'd know it while living with me as your guardian? I didn't much take pleasure from the idea of you reading it either, but I wouldn't very well like to keep secrets from you; especially when it comes to something like this." James paused a moment, remembering how he hadn't shown Emma Sylvia's diary when he'd found it, and a shiver cut, like a razor, down his spine. His voice dropped slightly. "I showed you as soon as I found out. I only read it just over a half an hour ago." Peter looked out toward the pond and remained pensive for a very long time before speaking again.

"Did you love her back?" he muttered. James, who had begun to scratch Porthos behind the ear, and was startled by the sudden sound of Peter's voice, looked at the boy carefully, convincing himself that the question he had just heard had really been asked.

"Yes," he said finally, "I loved her very much."

Peter nodded. He wasn't sure what he wanted his reaction to be now, or what it should have been, for that matter. He looked down at the diary for another moment, closed it, and suddenly rose from the bench.

"I'm going to go get ready for dinner," he explained, and departed from the scene in the direction of the house, the diary stowed protectively in his ghost-white hands.

A/N: Yes, this chapter was very short, but very significant, as you can tell. If I were to put the Epilogue in with this, though, it would be too long of a chapter, so I am waiting on posting the Epilogue...until I write it. I'm glad to have finished this chapter, though, as I know you have all been waiting for an update, and I'm glad to have one more chapter down! The last one, you should like. It wraps everything up, and gives the story a nice completeness. Please, please, please, _PLEASE _continue to stick with me until the very end. Now, here's a long string of Review Replies for you - look for your name! I hope you enjoyed the update, and I hope to see over 5 more REVIEWS. (sticks tongue out)

* * *

REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 16:  
(and 2 and 3)

**oi-oi-oi - **Well, if it weren't for KatrinaKaiba, you'd be the 99th reviewer. Because of her, I have to deduct 3 reviews. She reviewed an author's note to piss me off, and then she reviewed twice for one chapter, and then something I found a long time ago. But anyway, I hope you got to read chapter 16 and liked it, and are seeing this here, in 17. No, NT story won't be written. But, if you've seen_ Cinderella Man_, I'm writing a story based on that that you may read. 2 chapters of it are up already. I also wrote a _A Beautiful Mind _poem, and of course, other stuff will be out, so you won't completely lose track of my writing! Thanks so much for everything.

**Neverland's Sparrow - **Yes, I killed. lol. Thank you for all the comments. I'd say if death should happen, it _should _be artfully done. Let your story be an example of that, not mine. I know you'll still be here through to the Epilogue!

_(for review for A-N) _Yes, you are permitted - the 100th reviewer thing has ended. My nameless situation is clearing up a tiny bit...as long as I'm not put under more stress. I thank you for your support through all of this and hope you enjoyed the update! Epilogue on the way...I hope I'll be in the mood long enough to finish it quickly.

**Lizella - **Oh, I'm sorry hahaha. I had to, it was a strong idea I had. I was also surprised at the number of reviewers liked her too! I'm glad they do, too! Hope to see you in a review at the very end!

**Kris - **Aww thanks. I'm glad you think I'm brilliant! Now, see, a lot of people abandon my stories. I'm glad I still have a lot of people that don't, and I'm glad you're one of them!

_(for review for A-N) _Hah no, I'm not sick of you. And I'm glad you agree with me! JKR definitely deserves to be on Britain's list of most powerful women! Thanks so much for your support - and now I'm setting aside the Polish project and starting something new called Bishop Hill. I'd like some luck on that - it's been complicated to plan out!

**XHeartofaDragonX - **Yes, almost over...I am very sorry, dear. Yes, that is a deal. Yes, you will read mine. Yes, you are lazy. Yes, I am kidding. Yes, I am glad you enjoyed the flashbacks. Yes, Mr. McLimans is rising from the dead to partner with me to correct the world's horrible English. Yes, you are Amy, and yes, I love you!

**H.M. Chandler - **Aww. I'm always so glad when I hear that people cried while reading something of mine. I hope you do read other stuff, and I think maybe you should do a sequel, if you have ideas! But, only if you have ideas, because if you don't, you'll find yourself battling a severe bout of the infamous Writer's Block, and it'll be no fun. So, if you do write a sequel, I'll be eager to read! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

_(for review for A-N) _Thanks so much! The performance went great, and camp was fun - after I got over missing my computer to death and missing being home. I don't like being away for too long. At the end of camp, I realized I'd forgotten what my parents looked like hahaha! Anyway, thanks for stickin' with me, I really appreciate it.

**cornishxxxpixie - **_(for chapters 2 and 3) _I'll look for your oneshot update! I'm glad you continued to read through chapter 3...um...I hope you get all the way here to see your reply, though! Thanks, anyway!


	18. Epilogue

The Playwright  
Epilogue

A/N: Hey guys. Of course I've got the big long ending farewell thing at the end of this chapter thanking people and stuff, but right now I want to make a note of reviewing and contacting when this is all over. First of all, if you're reviewing after I'm finished with the story and you have a question for me, leave your email in the review so I know how to contact you in order to answer your question, if you're interested in the answer. If you don't leave it and you're leaving a signed review, I'll just try your profile to see if your email's in there. If it's not...um...well, that's that! Now, about emailing and contact - all of my contact information is in my profile, so just look there. I LOVE getting emails from readers..it makes me feel special, and all warm and fuzzy and tingly inside. I always like meeting and talking to new people, so send me an IM, even, if you're too lazy to email. (I know the feeling) I'll be writing more on the site when I get ideas, so keep a lookout and if you see something, by all means, drop a comment!

Anyway, I'll stop blabbing now and let you read. I hope you enjoy my conclusion!

OoOoO

The weather that day was better than any to take a trip out into the country. James and the boys loaded up the car with sandwiches and drinks for lunch and drove up to Emma's stables. The tone during the car ride there was light and cheerful: the boys joked and laughed all the way. Even Peter joined in once in a while and made a pun or gave a smile, despite the things on his mind that were none but unhappy thoughts. The usual gentle, friendly air between James and Peter had become tense and heavy, though, and they hadn't said more than three words to each other since they'd packed up the car.

Jack and Michael carried the picnic basket, and George carried the blankets. Peter carried his notebook and a jug of water; and James, Porthos's leash and his own notebook. Once they were settled, James let his dog off of his leash, and he took off around the pastures, chasing the geese that had congregated in a bunch back behind the stables. The playwright smiled at the look of it, the great beast running around for a purpose that was so completely absurd, except to the dog itself. He didn't care who looked on at him.

James had just lain down, taken out his newspaper and had begun reading, when he saw George dash to the car to get the large yellow kite that they had brought.

"Don't wander off too far - stay where I can see you," he reminded, and looked back down to his paper.

The news of Emma du Maurier's death had spread through the town quickly, and still even more so, since December. The local newspaper had reported on different aspects of the death every week. One week they had interviewed Mary Cannan, who stated that she was a "very good friend of Madame du Maurier" and that she and James had had them over for dinner. James remembered frowning. Mary hadn't seen Mrs. du Maurier since then. If she had, James certainly wasn't aware of it. He hadn't seen his ex-wife much at the Christmas party, and for all he knew, she was off with Emma trying to get to know her to improve her own social status. Just like her.

Another day, they reported on the burial. James didn't recall anyone else at the burial besides people he knew, so he wasn't sure how, exactly, they had gotten their information, unless someone who was present had gone to the press. James also recalled that most of Emma's friends hadn't come. He didn't see the City Replenishment woman, Eva Dickonson. I guess who comes to your funeral are the people who are your real friends. This made James think about who would come to his. Of course, though, he wouldn't be around to find out.

Today, they had reported on James's guardianship over Sylvia's four boys. They had said that from what they have heard from the townspeople, most aren't comfortable with the guardianship. James grimaced. That same matter of his actions toward the Davies boys had reared its head and smacked him across the face once more.

"What's done is done," James sniffed to himself. "They can't do anything about it." He loved the boys, now, like sons. He wasn't willing to give them up just for the sake of unhappy pastry-dunking townspeople. He didn't want to be bothered about it. And, just the other day, a reporter had come to the front doorstep of Emma's house to get a peek at the boys and to interview James.

"James Barrie, I presume?" he'd said, his face alight with false hospitality. James merely smiled back.

"Yes, that you do," he'd said, and promptly closed and locked the door. He proceeded, then, to lock all the other doors and windows as well. Reporters do go to great lengths to get a story. They were a nuisance to James Barrie. Even the thought of newspapers made him sick, but James walked by the paper boy on the sidewalk, nonetheless, every day to pick up the paper.

Gossip was even worse than reporters. James told Arthur Conan Doyle one day (when the two were sitting in Lixon's with their journals - they had spent half the time talking, and half the time silently writing. James, _Peter Pan, _and Arthur, his latest _Sherlock Holmes. _Charles had bumped into them later and had said something about walking in on the convention of the Scots) that the citizens of the town gossiped simply because they had nothing better to do with their time. Arthur had laughed at the comment, apparently thinking the same thing.

"You and I are above all of that nonsense," he said, "We have things to keep us occupied: Cricket, and sitting on our rumps all day long making up stories."

"It's better to write about made up people dealing with made up nonsense, anyway," James had said.

"Uncle Jim, can we go and see the horses now?" came a high voice from above James. He, having been lying on the grass on his back now, moved his paper to see Michael.

"The horses? Alright. And then we'll have lunch, I think." The playwright stood and walked with Michael to collect the boys. Peter took down the kite and they all walked to one of the big red buildings in which the horses were kept. James led them all down rows of stables looking for a particular horse - Tinkerbell; and when they found her, they all pulled her out together.

Michael and George went on Tinkerbell together, and then Jack with Michael afterwards because Michael was incredibly unwilling to give up the saddle. When it came to Peter's turn, he insisted that James go with him, so the playwright obliged, quickly shaking off the tiny bit of shock he had. Peter hadn't made any effort to communicate with James the entire time they were there, and this sudden interest in his presence was certainly amusing.

Peter didn't need any help getting on, he seemed to have a grasp on the skill from watching his brothers. James got on behind and the two took off. That feeling took over James again as the wind flew toward them carefully picking its route around the figures cutting through it. Nothing mattered now, up here, riding so fast. The sound of hooves beating heavily against the grass and the wind forcing itself past them filled the ears of the both of them and soon, they were going so fast that it felt that they weren't even moving anymore. They seemed to be suspended in the air, with the lightest feeling. All sound fell away again, and James closed his eyes, but opened them when he heard a loud whoop come from in front of him. Peter was enjoying this immensely, it seemed. He thrust his fist in the air and laughed. James felt a full smile come to his face and a laugh escape from his own mouth. Peter looked back at James with the brightest smile you would ever see on the boy, turned his head toward the sky, closed his eyes, and let out a loud...crow.

OoOoO

The cemetery trees were in full bloom, still. James sat in between the headstones du Maurier and Davies, eating a banana and talking to Sylvia and Emma casually. He could hear them both in his head, their responses, their questions. He laughed occasionally, listening to them. He heard them bicker, and watched Emma rolling her eyes. It was as if they were sitting there near him drinking tea and having a normal chat.

It was quiet there today. Not a soul (ha ha) had showed himself through the entire hour that James had been sitting there. But it made the man jump when he heard the soft clicking of shoes bouncing off the walls of the tunnel. The sound became more apparent, and soon clicked down the stairs and thumped through the grass, to the spot in front of him. He smiled, his mouth full of banana. Peter gave a tiny smile back, as his Uncle Jim swallowed his mouthful.

"'Morning, Peter," he said.

"Good morning."

"Join us?"

"Alright." The boy sat down next to James and greeted his mother, father, and grandmother. Then, he looked at James. "I wanted to speak with you," he said. James nodded, urging him on.

"I may have overreacted a bit the other day. I just wanted to," he took a breath, "to apologize."

"Apology most graciously accepted, Peter," James answered kindly.

"Thank you." He fumbled with his jacket, and the playwright looked over at him. He noticed that the boy sitting next to him looked like a tiny version of himself. He was wearing a black tie with a gray vest and, since he didn't have a black one like James's, a long gray overcoat. His hair and eyes made him Peter. "It's just that...I...don't want things to be true sometimes. It helps more to...convince myself that things are happening the way I want them to, rather than to sort through the thing that's really happening."

"I know _exactly how you feel, Peter,_" James said quietly, smiling. Peter looked up at his guardian. "It's often easier to run away from problems, rather than to confront them. Every man feels that way." Peter nodded, and fumbled with his coat again.

"I wish my mother were here," Peter said softly.

"So do I, boy. So do I."

"She seemed to always be able to make everything better. If something hurt, she'd kiss it, and the pain would go away. If I were sad, she'd joke with me, and I'd laugh." James nodded. "We all need someone like that now. All four of us do - Jack, Michael, George, and me."

"I know."

"And I want you to be that someone. And...and I never answered your question from before." James's stomach lurched. Peter looked up again.

"I would have wanted you to be my father, Uncle Jim." They both stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Then, James looked into his lap. He saw his banana in his black-gloved hand, which was slowly tinting brown.

"Thank you," he whispered. "You boys mean...everything to me. I want to help you as much as I can." A minute passed, and then Peter smiled.

"I love you, Uncle Jim," he said.

And the two sat. For hours, talking. The world was perfect again. It was James and the boys now, and no one could change it. They were all linked together, now, by an invisible bond, so that they were completely and absolutely inseparable. James vowed to himself that he would never let anything happen to his boys, to his sons. If something did, he knew he'd never be able to forgive himself for letting down Sylvia, for letting down Peter.

And so ends the tale of a man who would never grow old

And of the boy who was the muse, who could never stay young.

OoOoO

_"All the world's a stage."  
-William Shakespeare_

OoOoO

A/N: I just can't say thank all of you enough. I want to give credit to everyone who reviewed through this whole thing up until this date. These people include - KatrinaKaiba(Neverland's Sparrow), Gee Nay Pieg, emmyruth, oi-oi-oi, Writing Muse, H.M. Chandler, Katie, Liz, XHeartofaDragonX, Lizella, plumsy321, emmyruth, Strange-Torpedo, Destiny-TWoP, cornishxxxpixie, Fire Spirit, Alone Dreaming, piratingelvenpyro, Salutarisy, Claire, kris, ForeverInUrArms, danielle, froggerwisegurl, Moonjava, ChelseaEvans, toothpickpocket, and me-loves-Orli. You are all so wonderful!

I also want to thank people who have been with me since the very, very beginning and have stuck it out to the very end! These people are (and I shall update as people finish) - KatrinaKaiba(Neverland's Sparrow), and H.M. Chandler.

And credit to my 100th reviewer, and best friend, **XHeartofaDragonX**! Thanks! Also to **Neverland's Sparrow (KatrinaKaiba) **for being my illegal 100th reviewer and rebel to my statements about not reviewing Author Note updates. Hahaha no offense taken, I hope.

I know I'm very, very sad to see this end and there'll be a little hole in my every day goings-on - the time where I used to be writing this. I'm so thankful of your patience and support and praise and everything you've been doing good these past few months! You guys deserve more credit than I do! Anyway, I'll miss all of you very much. But I do have a surprise...I'm writing a sequel. I have some ideas. I'll use some of those left over ideas and I've got some new ones. I'd love to write some of the rehearsals for _The Man With Music On His Face. _I think it would be fun. So, keep a lookout for the sequel, I'd LOVE if you guys reviewed! And tell your friends if you think this was good. The more the merrier!

Now. I've heard that they're not permitting replying to reviews inside stories, so I'll put little replies in the A/Ns before stories if you have a question. If you want me to send you the petition to stop them from not abolishing review replies, I still have it, so I'll send it to you. Also, to eliminate long Author's Notes, you can read my blabbing on a new Livejournal community I'm creating. I'll post the link in my profile once it's up, and in the first chapter of the sequel. There'll be a lot of news about the story and junk, and if you have an LJ, feel free to join it.

Anyway, I'll be back! So, have a great rest of the summer - or if you've already started school, a great school year! See you in a few weeks!

Love, Meredith

* * *

(The Final Set Of) REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 17:  
(and 1, 4, 5, 6 and 7)

**Neverland's Sparrow - **Yes, your spelling sucked. I was absolutely outraged. Anyway - Aw, thanks. I'm glad you like the chappie even if it wasn't long prose filled with steamy MJ goodness. Thanks for reading, as always! (drinks up the complimentary bottle of rum)

**Kris - **Yeah, my diary entry thing..I moved it around at the last minute. I was going to have the reader see the diary entry when James was reading it, but I cut it off and made you wait until he went and talked to Peter. I was going to have James and Peter talk at the pond...that was planned for the longest time, but I couldn't think of a longer conversation to write for them, so I switched things up and changed the diary entry almost entirely when I typed it into my computer from my notebook. I like it much better in the final draft. Now, about me not being a good writer - I'm not - but this story is good, I will admit. Thanks, mate for all the nice reviews through this whole thing! I know I'll see you after the final chapter!

**H.M. Chandler - **Yeah, I am a huge James/Sylvia shipper. I really really wish she wouldn't have DIED. Might make a good storyline for you, eh, mate? What would have happened if she'd lived? Hah - I don't have the time...I'm writing an original story now - big project - lots of characters, complicated plot - but if you wrote something like that, I'd definitely read it. Good luck with your chapter 18! I'll be by to read, I promise! Thank you so much for everything, you've been a great reviewer and friend!

**cornishxxxpixie - **_(for chapter 5) _Hah thanks, and you're welcome! I hope you do get to read more!

**XHeartofaDragonX - **Hah well that was the general effect I had in mind with Peter. Well, anyway, hope you totally luvved this and will be missing it now that it's over. (sniff) I'm glad you liked the chapter - I was worried about the length..cuz it was such a long wait, and a tiny little chapter...but I put a lot of thought into it, which I guess is good. Anywho - have fun at the stables with Jim haha (wink)

**me-loves-Orli - **You'll see this when you get to the end, but I'll reply to stuff anyway.

_(for chapter 1) _Aw, I'm glad you like my James! I hope to see more reviews from you!  
_(for chapter 4) _Wow, movin' right along, eh? Thanks so much! I rarely get new readers that are willing to read the entire story in less than three months and absolutely love it!  
_(for chapter 6) _Hah - yeah, that's part of my goal - to get you HOOKED. mwhaha. I can see it worked on YOU! I'm glad you're passin' on the news of this to your friend! I hope she likes it just as much - tell her to review so I know she's come to read!  
_(for chapter 7) _Oh, as I said before, you're not taking half as long as it takes some people. And now, since I am the human dictionary (friends call me that) Dyslexic is how you spell it haha. Thanks for addin' me to your faves! I really appreciate that!

And, I swear I will never reply to any review in a story again in the fashion I am acting upon at this moment, for as long as I live. Do forgive me this one time and do not boot me, ban me, or delete this. I give you my w0rd.


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